The Ambassador's Mission

Chapter 1
The Old and the New

The most successful and quoted piece by the poet Rewin, greatest of the rabble to come out of the New City, was called Citysong. It captured what was heard at night in Imardin, if you took the time to stop and listen: an unending muffled and distant combination of sounds. Voices. Singing. A laugh. A groan. A gasp. A scream.

In the darkness of Imardin’s new Quarter a man remembered the poem. He stopped to listen, but instead of absorbing the city’s song he concentrated on one discordant echo. A sound that didn’t belong. A sound that didn’t repeat. He snorted quietly and continued on.

A few steps later a figure emerged from the shadows before him. The figure was male and loomed over him menacingly. Light caught the edge of a blade.

“Yer money,” a rough voice said, hard with determination.

The man said nothing and remained still. He might have appeared frozen in terror. He might have appeared deep in thought.

When he did move, it was with uncanny speed. A click, a snap of sleeve, and the robber gasped and sank to his knees. A knife clattered on the ground. The man patted him on the shoulder.

“Sorry. Wrong night, wrong target, and I don’t have time to explain why.”

As the robber fell, face-down, on the pavement, the man stepped over him and walked on. Then he paused and looked over his shoulder, to the other side of the street.

“Hai! Gol. You’re supposed to be my bodyguard.”

From the shadows another large figure emerged and hurried to the man’s side.

“Reckon you don’t have much need for one, Cery. I’m getting slow in my old age. I should be payin’ you to protect me.”

Cery scowled. “Your eyes and ears are still sharp, aren’t they?”

Gol winced. “As sharp as yours,” he retorted sullenly.

“Too true.” Cery sighed. “I should retire. But Thieves don’t get to retire.”

“Except by not being Thieves any more.”

“Except by becoming corpses,” Cery corrected.

“But you’re no ordinary Thief. I reckon there’s different rules for you. You didn’t start the usual way, so why would you finish the usual way?”

“Wish everyone else agreed with you.”

“So do I. City’d be a better place.”

“With everyone agreeing with you? Ha!”

“Better for me, anyway.”

Cery chuckled and resumed the journey. Gol followed a short distance behind. He hides his fear well, Cery thought. Always has. But he must be thinking that we both might not make it through this night. Too many of the others have died.

Over half the Thieves – the leaders of underworld criminal groups in Imardin – had perished these last few years. Each in different ways and most from unnatural causes. Stabbed, poisoned, pushed from a tall building, burned in a fire, drowned or crushed in a collapsed tunnel. Some said a single person was responsible, a vigilante they called the Thief Hunter. Others believed it was the Thieves themselves, settling old disputes.

Gol said it wasn’t who would go next that punters were betting on, but how.

Of course, younger Thieves had taken the place of the old, sometimes peacefully, sometimes after a quick, bloody struggle. That was to be expected. But even these bold newcomers weren’t immune to murder. They were as likely to become the next victim as an older Thief.

There were no obvious connections between the killings. While there were plenty of grudges between Thieves, none provided a reason for so many murders. And while attempts on Thieves’ lives weren’t that unusual, that they were successful was. That, and the fact that the killer or killers had neither bragged about it, nor been seen in the act.

In the past we would have held a meeting. Discussed strategies. Worked together. But it’s been such a long time since the Thieves cooperated with each other I don’t think we’d know how to, now.

He’d seen the change coming in the days after the Ichani invaders were defeated, but hadn’t guessed how quickly it would happen. Once the Purge – the yearly forced exodus of the homeless from the city into the slums – ended, the slums were declared part of the city, rendering old boundaries obsolete. Alliances between Thieves faltered and new rivalries began. Thieves who had worked together to save the city during the invasion turned on each other in order to hold onto their territory, make up for what they’d lost to others and take advantage of new opportunities.

Cery passed four young men lounging against a wall where the alley met a wider street. They eyed him and their gaze fell to the small medallion pinned to Cery’s coat that marked him as a Thief’s man. As one they nodded respectfully. Cery nodded back once, then paused at the alley entrance, waiting for Gol to pass the men and join him. The bodyguard had decided years ago that he was better able to spot potential threats if he wasn’t walking right beside Cery – and Cery could handle most close encounters himself.

As Cery waited, he looked down at a red line painted across the alley entrance, and smiled with amusement. Having declared the slums a part of the city, the king had tried to take control of it with varying success. Improvements to some areas led to raised rents which, along with the demolition of unsafe houses, forced the poor into smaller and smaller areas of the city. They dug in and made these places their own and, like cornered animals, defended them with savage determination, giving their neighbourhoods names like Blackstreets and Dwellfort. There were now boundary lines, some painted, some known only by reputation, over which no city guard dared step unless he was in the company of several colleagues – and even then they must expect a fight. Only the presence of a magician ensured their safety.

As his bodyguard joined him, Cery turned away and they started to cross the wider street together. A carriage passed, lit by two swinging lanterns. The ever-present guards strolled in groups of two – never out of sight of the next or last group – carrying lanterns.

This was a new thoroughfare, cutting through the bad part of the city known as Wildways. Cery had wondered, at first, why the king had bothered. Anyone travelling along it was at risk of being robbed by the denizens on either side, and probably stuck with a knife in the process. But the road was wide, giving little cover for muggers, and the tunnels beneath, once part of the underground network known as the Thieves’ Road, had been filled in during its construction. Many of the old, overcrowded buildings on either side had been demolished and replaced by large, secure ones owned by merchants.

Split in two, vital connections within Wildways had been broken. Though Cery was sure efforts were underway to dig new tunnels, half the local population had been forced into other bad neighbourhoods, while the rest were split by the main road. Wildways, where visitors had once come seeking a gambling house or cheap whore, undeterred by the risk of robbery and murder, was doomed.

Cery, as always, felt uncomfortable in the open. The encounter with the mugger had left him uneasy.

“Do you think he was sent to test me?” he asked Gol.

Gol did not answer straightaway, his long silence telling Cery he was considering the question carefully.

“Doubt it. More likely he had a fatal bout of bad luck.”

Cery nodded. I agree. But times have changed. The city has changed. It’s like living in a foreign country, sometimes. Or what I’d imagine living in some other city would be like, since I’ve never left Imardin. Unfamiliar. Different rules. Dangers where you don’t expect them. Can’t be too paranoid. And I am, after all, about to meet the most feared Thief in Imardin.

“You there!” a voice called. Two guards strode toward them, one holding up his lantern. Cery considered the distance to the other side of the road, then sighed and stopped.

“Me?” he asked, turning to face the guards. Gol said nothing.

The taller of the guards stopped a step closer than his stocky companion. He did not answer, but after looking from Gol to Cery and back again a few times he settled on staring at Cery.

“State your address and name,” he ordered.

“Cery of River Road, Northside,” Cery replied.

“Both of you?”

“Yes. Gol is my servant. And bodyguard.”

The guard nodded, barely glancing at Gol. “Your destination?”

“A meeting with the king.”

The quieter guard’s indrawn breath earned a glance from his superior. Cery watched the men, amused to find them both trying – and failing – to hide their dismay and fear. He’d been told to give them this information, and though it was a ridiculous claim the guard appeared to believe him. Or, more likely, understood that it was a coded message.

The taller guard straightened. “On your way then. And... safe journey.”

Cery turned away and, with Gol following a step behind, continued across the street. He wondered if the message had told them exactly who Cery was meeting, or if it only told the guard that whoever spoke the phrase wasn’t to be detained or delayed.

Either way, he doubted he and Gol had chanced upon the only corrupted guard on the street. There had always been guards willing to work with the Thieves, but now the layers of corruption were stronger and more pervasive than ever. There were honest, ethical men in the Guard who strove to expose and punish offenders in their ranks, but it was a battle they had been losing for some time now.

Everyone is caught up in infighting of one form or another. The Guard is fighting corruption, the Houses are feuding, the rich and poor novices and magicians in the Guild bicker constantly, the Allied Lands can’t agree on what to do about Sachaka, and the Thieves are at war with each other. Faren would have found it all very entertaining.

But Faren was dead. Unlike the rest of the Thieves, he had died of a perfectly normal lung infection during winter five years ago. Cery hadn’t spoken to him for years before that. The man Faren had been grooming to replace him had taken the reins of his criminal empire with no contest or bloodshed. The man known as Skellin.

The man Cery was meeting tonight.

As Cery made his way through the smaller, lingering portion of the split Wildways neighbourhood, ignoring the calls of whores and betting boys, he considered what he knew of Skellin. Faren had taken in his successor’s mother when Skellin was only a child, but whether the woman had been Faren’s lover or wife, or had worked for him, was unknown. The old Thief had kept them close and secret, as most Thieves had to do with loved ones. Skellin had proven himself a talented man. He had taken over many underworld enterprises, and started more than a few of his own, with few failures. He had a reputation for being clever and uncompromising. Cery did not think Faren would have approved of Skellin’s utter ruthlessness. Yet the stories most likely had been embellished during retellings, so there was no guessing how deserving the man’s reputation was.

There was no animal Cery knew of called a “Skellin”. Faren’s successor had been the first new Thief to break with the tradition of using animal names. It didn’t necessarily mean “Skellin” was his real name, of course. Those who believed it was thought him brave for revealing it. Those who didn’t, didn’t care.

A turn into another street brought them out into a cleaner part of the area. Cleaner only in appearance, however. Behind the doors of these solid, well-maintained houses lived more affluent whores, fences, smugglers and assassins. The Thieves had learned that the Guard – stretched too thin – didn’t look much deeper if outward appearances were respectable. And the Guard, like certain wealthy men and women from the Houses with dubious business connections, had also learned to distract the city’s do-gooders from their failure to deal with the problem with donations to their pet charity projects.

Which included the hospices run by Sonea, still a hero to the poor even if the rich only spoke of Akkarin’s efforts and sacrifices in the Ichani Invasion. Cery often wondered if she guessed how much of the money donated to her cause came from corrupt sources. And if she did, did she care?

He and Gol slowed as they reached the intersection of streets named in the directions Cery had been sent. At the corner was a strange sight.

A patch of green sprinkled with bright colour filled the space where a house had once been. Plants of all sizes grew among the old foundations and broken walls. All were illuminated by hundreds of hanging lamps. Cery chuckled quietly as he finally remembered where he’d heard the name “Sunny House” before. The house had been destroyed during the Ichani Invasion, and the owner could not afford to rebuild it. He’d bunkered down in the basement of the ruin, and spent his days encouraging his beloved garden to take over – and the local people to enter and enjoy it.

It was a strange place for Thieves to be meeting, but Cery could see advantages. It was relatively open – nobody could approach or listen in without being noticed – and yet public enough that any fight or attack would be witnessed, which would hopefully discourage treachery and violence.

The instructions had said to wait beside the statue. As Cery and Gol entered the garden, they saw a stone figure on a plinth in the middle of the ruins. The statue was carved of black stone veined with grey and white. It was of a cloaked man, facing east but looking north. Drawing near, Cery realised there was something familiar about it.

It’s supposed to be Akkarin, he recognised with a shock. Facing the Guild but looking toward Sachaka. Moving closer he examined the face. Not a good likeness, though.

Gol made a low noise of warning and Cery’s attention immediately snapped back to his surroundings. A man was walking toward them, and another was trailing behind.

Is this Skellin? He is definitely foreign. But this man was not from any race that Cery had encountered. The stranger’s face was long and slim, his cheek bones and chin narrowing to a point. This made his surprisingly curvaceous mouth appear to be too large for his face. But his eyes and angular brows were in proportion – almost beautiful. His skin was darker than the typical Elyne or Sachakan colouring, but rather than the blue-black of a typical Lonmar it had a reddish tinge. His hair was a far darker shade of red than the vibrant tones common among the Elynes.

He looks like he’s fallen into a pot of dye, and it hasn’t quite washed out yet, Cery mused. I’d say he is about twenty-five.

“Welcome to my home, Cery of Northside,” the man said, with no trace of a foreign accent. “I am Skellin. Skellin the Thief or Skellin the Dirty Foreigner depending on who you talk to and how intoxicated they are.”

Cery wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Which would you rather I call you?”

Skellin’s smile broadened. “Skellin will do. I am not fond of fancy titles.” His gaze shifted to Gol.

“My bodyguard,” Cery explained.

Skellin nodded once at Gol in acknowledgement, then turned back to Cery. “May we talk privately?”

“Of course,” Cery replied. He nodded at Gol, who retreated out of earshot. Skellin’s companion also retreated.

The other Thief moved to one of the low walls of the ruin and sat down. “It is a shame the Thieves of this city don’t meet and work together any more,” he said. “Like in the old days.” He looked at Cery. “You knew the old traditions and followed the old rules once. Do you miss them?”

Cery shrugged. “Change goes on all the time. You lose something and you gain something else.”

One of Skellin’s elegant eyebrows rose. “Do the gains outweigh the losses?”

“More for some than others. I’ve not had much profit from the split, but I still have a few understandings with other Thieves.”

“That is good to hear. Do you think there is a chance we might come to an understanding?”

“There’s always a chance.” Cery smiled. “It depends on what you’re suggesting we understand.”

Skellin nodded. “Of course.” He paused and his expression grew serious. “There are two offers I’d like to make to you. The first is one I’ve made to several other Thieves, and they have all agreed to it.”

Cery felt a thrill of interest. All of them? But then, he doesn’t say how many “several” is.

“You have heard of the Thief Hunter?” Skellin asked.

“Who hasn’t?”

“I believe he is real.”

“One person killed all those Thieves?” Cery raised his eyebrows, not bothering to conceal his disbelief.

“Yes,” Skellin said firmly, holding Cery’s gaze. “If you ask around – ask the people who saw something – there are similarities in the murders.”

I’ll have to have Gol look into it again, Cery mused. Then a possibility occurred to him. I hope Skellin doesn’t think that my helping High Lord Akkarin to find the Sachakan spies back before the Ichani Invasion means I can find this Thief Hunter for him. They were easy to spot, once you knew what to look for. The Thief Hunter is something else.

“So... what you want to do about him?”

“I’d like your agreement that if you hear anything about the Thief Hunter you will tell me. I understand that many Thieves aren’t talking to each other, so I offer myself as a recipient of information about the Thief Hunter instead. Perhaps, with everyone’s cooperation, I’ll get rid of him for you all. Or, at the least, be able to warn anyone if they are going to be attacked.”

Cery smiled. “That last bit is a touch optimistic.”

Skellin shrugged. “Yes, there is always the chance a Thief won’t pass on a warning if he knows the Thief Hunter is going to kill a rival. But remember that every Thief removed is one less source of information that could lead to us getting rid of the Hunter and ensuring our own safety.”

“They’d be replaced quick enough.”

Skellin frowned. “By someone who might not know as much as their predecessor.”

“Don’t worry.” Cery shook his head. “There’s nobody I hate enough to do that to, right now.”

The other man smiled. “So are we in agreement?”

Cery considered. Though he did not like the sort of trade Skellin was in, it would be silly to turn down this offer. The only information the man wanted related to the Thief Hunter, nothing more. And he was not asking for a pact or promise – if Cery was unable to pass on information because it would compromise his safety or business, nobody could say he’d broken his word.

“Yes,” he replied. “I can do that.”

“We have an understanding,” Skellin said, his smile broadening. “Now let me see if I can make that two.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m sure you know the main product that I import and sell.”

Not bothering to hide his distaste, Cery nodded. “Roet. Or ‘rot’, as some call it. Not something I’m interested in. And I hear you have it well in hand.”

Skellin nodded. “I do. When Faren died he left me a shrinking territory. I needed a way to establish myself and strengthen my control. I tried different trades. Roet supply was new and untested. I was amazed at how quickly Kyralians took to it. It has proven to be very profitable, and not just for me. The Houses are making a nice little income from the rent on the brazier houses.” Skellin paused. “You could be gaining from this little industry, too, Cery of Northside.”

“Just call me Cery.” Cery let his expression grow serious. “I am flattered, but Northside is home to people mostly too poor to pay for roet. It’s a habit for the rich.”

“But Northside is growing more prosperous, thanks to your efforts, and roet is getting cheaper as more becomes available.”

Cery resisted a cynical smile at the flattery.

“Not quite enough yet. It would stop growing if roet was brought in too soon and too fast.” And if I could manage it, we’d have no rot at all. He’d seen what it did to men and women caught up in the pleasure of it – forgetting to eat or drink, or to feed their children except to dose them with the drug to stop their complaints of hunger. But I’m not foolish enough to think I can keep it away forever. If I don’t provide it, someone else will. I will have to find a way to do so without causing too much damage. “There will be a right time to bring roet to Northside,” Cery said. “And when that time comes I’ll know who to come to.”

“Don’t leave it too long, Cery,” Skellin warned. “Roet is popular because it is new and fashionable, but eventually it will be like bol – just another vice of the city, grown and prepared by anybody. I’m hoping that by then I’ll have established new trades to support myself with.” He paused and looked away. “One of the old, honourable Thief trades. Or perhaps even something legitimate.”

He turned back and smiled, but there was a hint of sadness and dissatisfaction in his expression. Perhaps there’s an honest man in there, Cery thought. If he didn’t expect roet to spread so fast, maybe he didn’t expect it to cause so much damage... but that isn’t going to convince me to get into the trade myself.

Skellin’s smile faded and was replaced by an earnest frown. “There are people out there who would like to take your place, Cery. Roet may be your best defence against them, as it was for me.”

“There are always people out there who want me gone,” Cery said. “I’ll go when I’m ready.”

The other Thief looked amused. “You truly believe you’ll get to choose the time and place?”

“Yes.”

“And your successor?”

“Yes.”

Skellin chuckled. “I like your confidence. Faren was as sure of himself, too. He was half right: he got to choose his successor.”

“He was a clever man.”

“He told me much about you.” Skellin’s gaze became curious. “How you didn’t become a Thief by the usual ways. That the infamous High Lord Akkarin arranged it.”

Cery resisted the urge to look at the statue. “All Thieves gain power through favours with powerful people. I happened to exchange favours with a very powerful one.”

Skellin’s eyebrows rose. “Did he ever teach you magic?”

A laugh escaped Cery. “If only!”

“But you grew up with Black Magician Sonea and gained your position with help from the former High Lord. Surely you would have picked up something.”

“Magic isn’t like that,” Cery explained. But surely he knows that. “You have to have the talent, and be taught to control and use it. You can’t pick it up by watching someone.”

Skellin put a finger to his chin and regarded Cery thoughtfully. “You do still have connections in the Guild, though, don’t you?”

Cery shook his head. “I haven’t seen Sonea in years.”

“How disappointing, after all you did – all the Thieves did – to help them.” Skellin smiled crookedly. “I’m afraid your reputation as a friend of magicians is nowhere near as exciting as the reality, Cery.”

“That’s the way with reputations. Usually.”

Skellin nodded. “So it is. Well, I have enjoyed our chat and made my offers. We have come to one understanding, at least. I hope we will come to another in time.” He stood up. “Thank you for meeting with me, Cery of Northside.”

“Thank you for the invitation. Good luck in catching the Thief Hunter.”

Skellin smiled, nodded politely, then turned and strolled back the way he had come. Cery watched him for a moment, then gave the statue another quick glance. It really wasn’t a good likeness.

“How did it go?” Gol murmured as Cery joined him.

“As I expected,” Cery replied. “Except...”

“Except?” Gol repeated when Cery didn’t finish.

“We agreed to share information on the Thief Hunter.”

“He’s real then?”

“So Skellin believes.” Cery shrugged. They crossed the road and began striding back toward Wildways. “That wasn’t the oddest thing, though.”

“Oh?”

“He asked if Akkarin taught me magic.”

Gol paused. “That isn’t that odd, though. Faren did hide Sonea before he handed her over to the Guild, in the hopes she would do magic for him. Skellin must have heard all about it.”

“Do you think he’d like to have his own pet magician?”

“Sure. Though he obviously wouldn’t want to hire you, seeing as you’re a Thief. Perhaps he thinks he can ask favours of the Guild through you.”

“I told him I hadn’t seen Sonea in years.” Cery chuckled. “Next time I see her, I might ask if she’ll help out one of my Thief friends, just to see the look on her face.”

A figure appeared in the alley ahead, hurrying toward them. Cery noted the possible exits and hiding places around them.

“You should tell her Skellin was making enquiries,” Gol advised. “He might try to recruit someone else. And it might work. Not all magicians are as incorruptible as Sonea.” Gol slowed. “That’s... That’s Neg.”

Relief that it wasn’t another attacker was followed by concern. Neg had been guarding Cery’s main hideout. He preferred it to roaming the streets, as open spaces made him jittery.

The guard had seen them. Neg was panting as he reached them. Something on his face caught the light, and Cery felt his heart drop somewhere far below the level of the street. A bandage.

“What is it?” Cery asked, in a voice he barely recognised as his.

“S... sorry,” Neg panted. “Bad news.” He drew in a deep breath, then let it out explosively and shook his head. “Don’t know how to tell you.”

“Say it,” Cery ordered.

“They’re dead. All of them. Selia. The boys. Never saw who. Got past everything. Don’t know how. No lock broken. When I came to...” As Neg babbled on, apologising and explaining, words running over themselves, a rushing sound filled Cery’s ears. His mind tried to find some other explanation for a moment. He must be mistaken. He’s hit his head and is delusional. He dreamed it.

But he made himself face the likely truth. What he had dreaded – had nightmares over – for years had happened.

Someone had made it past all the locks and guards and protections, and murdered his family.

Chapter 2
Questionable Connections

It was much earlier than her usual waking time. Dawn was still some hours away. Sonea blinked in the darkness and wondered what had woken her. A dream? Or had something real brought her to this state of sudden alertness in the middle of the night?

Then she heard a sound, faint but undeniable, in the next room.

Heart beating fast, the skin of her scalp tingling, she rose and silently moved to the bedroom door. She heard a footfall beyond, then another. Taking hold of the handle, she drew magic, threw up a shield and took a deep breath.

The handle turned silently. She pulled the door inward slightly and looked beyond. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window screens she saw a figure pacing the guestroom. Male, short of stature, and instantly familiar. Relief flooded through her.

“Cery,” she said, pulling the door open. “Who else would dare sneak into my rooms in the middle of the night?”

He turned to face her. “Sonea...” He drew in a deep breath, but said nothing more. A long pause followed and she frowned. It was not like him to hesitate. Had he come to ask a favour he knew she would not like?

She concentrated and created a small globe light, enough to fill the room with a soft glow. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. His face was so lined. The years of danger and worry living as a Thief had aged him faster than anyone else she knew.

I’m wearing plenty of signs of my years, she thought, but the battles for me were only the petty squabbling of magicians, not surviving in the uncompromising and often cruel underworld.

“So... what brings you to the Guild in the middle of the night?” she asked, stepping into the guest room.

He looked at her thoughtfully. “You never ask me how I get here without being noticed.”

“I don’t want to know. I don’t want to risk anyone else finding out, in the unlikely event that I must allow someone to read my mind.”

He nodded. “Ah. How are things going here?”

She shrugged. “The same. Rich and poor novices squabbling. And now that some of the formerly poor novices have graduated and become magicians, we have squabbling on a new level. One we have to take seriously. In a few days we’ll be meeting to consider a petition to abolish the rule against novices and magicians associating with criminals or people of low repute. If it’s successful then I will no longer be breaking a rule talking to you.”

“I can walk in the front gate and formally seek an audience?”

“Yes. Now that’s a scenario to give the Higher Magicians a few sleepless nights. I bet they wish they’d never allowed the lower classes to enter the Guild.”

“We always knew they would regret it,” Cery said. He sighed and looked away. “I’ve come to wish the Purge hadn’t ended.”

Sonea frowned and crossed her arms, feeling a stab of anger and disbelief. “Surely not.”

“Everything has changed for the worse.” He moved to a window and parted one of the screens, revealing nothing but darkness beyond.

“And that’s because the Purge was stopped?” She narrowed her eyes at his back. “Nothing to do with a certain new vice ruining the lives of so many Imardians, rich and poor?”

“Roet?”

“Yes. The Purge killed hundreds, but roet has taken thousands – and enslaved more.” Every day she saw the victims in her hospices. Not just those caught up in the drug’s seductions, but their desperate parents, spouses, siblings, offspring and friends.

And for all I know, Cery’s one of the Thieves importing and selling it, she couldn’t help thinking, and not for the first time.

“They say it stops you caring,” Cery said quietly, turning to face her. “No more worries or concerns. No fear. No... grief.”

His voice caught on the last word and suddenly Sonea felt all her senses grow sharper.

“What is it, Cery? Why did you come here?”

He drew in a deep breath. Let it out slowly. “My family,” he said, “were murdered tonight.”

Sonea rocked back on her heels. The edge of a terrible pain stabbed her, reminding her that some losses can never be forgotten – and should never be. But she held it back. She would be of no help to Cery if she let it consume her. He looked lost. In his eyes was an unshielded shock and agony. She strode to him and drew him into her arms. He stiffened for a moment, then slumped against her.

“It’s part of being a Thief,” he said. “You do all you can to protect your people, but there is always danger. Vesta left me because she couldn’t live with it. Couldn’t stand being locked away. Selia was stronger. Braver. After all she’d put up with, she didn’t deserve to... and the boys...”

Vesta had been Cery’s first wife. She’d been smart, but prickly and prone to temper tantrums. Selia had been a much better match for him, calm and with the quiet wisdom of someone who watched the world with open, yet forgiving eyes. Sonea held him as he shook with sobs, feeling tears in her own eyes. Can I imagine what it must be like to lose a child? I know the fear of losing them, but not the pain of actual loss. I think it would be worse than I can ever imagine. To know one’s children will never grow up... except... what of his other child? Though she must be all grown up by now.

“Is Anyi okay?” she asked.

Cery stilled, then drew away. His expression was taut with indecision. “I don’t know. I’ve let people think that I didn’t care about Vesta and Anyi after they left, for their own protection – though I’ve occasionally arranged for Anyi and I to cross each other’s paths so she would at least continue to recognise me.” He shook his head. “Whoever did this, got past the best locks money can buy, and people I trusted completely. They did their research. They might know about her. Or they know, but they don’t know her location. If I check on her I might lead them to her.”

“Can you get a warning to her?”

He frowned. “Yes. Perhaps...” He sighed. “I have to try.”

“What will you tell her to do?”

“Hide.”

“Then it won’t matter if you lead them to her or not, will it? She’ll have to go into hiding either way.”

He looked thoughtful. “I suppose so.”

Sonea smiled as a look of determination hardened his face. His entire body was now tense. He looked at her and his expression became apologetic.

“Go on,” she said. “And next time don’t wait so long to visit me.”

He managed a faint smile. “I won’t. Oh. Also, there’s something else. It’s just a niggle, but I reckon one of the new Thieves, Skellin, fancies having his own magician. He’s a rot supplier, so you better hope none of your magicians has a weakness for the stuff.”

“They’re not my magicians, Cery,” she reminded him, not for the first time.

Instead of his usual grin, he responded with a grimace. “Yes. Anyway. Unless you want to know how I get in and out of here, you better leave the room.”

Sonea rolled her eyes, then walked to the bedroom door. She turned back before closing it. “Good night, Cery. I’m so sorry about your family and I hope Anyi is alive and not in any danger.”

He nodded, then swallowed. “I do, too.”

Then she closed the door behind her and waited. There were a few faint thuds from the guest room, then silence. She counted to a hundred then opened the door again. The room was unoccupied. She could see no sign of his entrance and exit.

The darkness between the window screens was not so impenetrable now. It had gained a greyish tone, a hint of shape and form just discernible in the early morning light. She took a step toward it and stopped. Was that the square bulk of the High Lord’s Residence, or was she imagining it? Either way, the suggestion sent a shiver down her spine.

Stop it. He’s not there.

Balkan had lived there for the last twenty years. She had often wondered whether he felt haunted by the shadow of the former occupant, but had never asked, sure such a question would be tactless.

He’s up on the hill. Behind you.

She turned and looked beyond the walls, seeing in her imagination the shiny white new stone slabs among the grey of the ancient cemetery. An old longing filled her, but she hesitated. She had much to do today. But it was early – dawn was only just breaking. She had time. And it had been a while. Cery’s terrible news brought a need to... to what? Perhaps to acknowledge his loss by recalling her own. She needed to do more than act out the usual daily routine and pretend something awful hadn’t happened.

Returning to her bedroom, she washed and changed quickly, threw a cloak around her shoulders – black over black – then slipped out of the main door to her room, walked as quietly as she could down the hall of the Magicians’ Quarters to the entrance and out onto the path to the cemetery.

New paths had been laid since the first time she’d visited, with Lord Rothen, over twenty years before. Weedy vegetation had been removed, but the Guild had left a wall of protective trees around the outermost graves. She noted the smooth slabs of freshly carved stone. Some she had seen laid, some she hadn’t. When a magician died, any magic left in his or her body was released, and if there was enough of it their body was consumed. So the old graves had been a mystery. If there was no body to bury, why were there graves here?

The rediscovery of black magic had answered that question. The last remaining magical energy of those ancient magicians had been drawn away by a black magician, leaving a body to bury.

Now that black magic was no longer taboo, though strictly controlled, burials had become popular again. The task of drawing the last of a magician’s power fell to the Guild’s two black magicians, her and Black Magician Kallen.

Sonea felt that, if she had taken the last of a magician’s power at death, she ought to be present at the funeral. I wonder if Kallen feels the same sense of obligation when a magician chooses him. She moved to a plain, undecorated slab of stone and dried the dew from one corner with magical heat so she could sit down. Her eyes found the name carved into it. Akkarin. You would have found it amusing to see how many of the magicians who were so against reviving the use of black magic resort to it in the end, so their flesh remains after death to rot in the ground. Perhaps you’d have decided, as I have, that allowing your body to be consumed by your last magic is more appropriate for a magician and, she glanced at the increasingly elaborate decoration on the newer graves provided by the Guild, considerably less expensive.

She looked at the words on the grave she sat upon. A name, a title, a house name, a family name. Later the words “Father of Lorkin” had been added, in small, begrudging letters. But of her own name there was no mention. And will never be, while your family has anything to do with it, Akkarin. But at least they’ve accepted your son.

Pushing bitterness aside, she turned her mind to Cery and his family for a while, allowing herself to remember grief and feel the ache of sympathy. To allow memories to return, some welcome, some not. After a while the sound of footsteps roused her from her thoughts and she realised the sun had risen completely.

Turning to face the visitor, she smiled as she saw Rothen walking toward her. For a moment his wrinkled face was a mask of concern, then it relaxed into an expression of relief.

“Sonea,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “A messenger came to see you. Nobody knew where you’d gone.”

“And I bet it caused a lot of unnecessary fuss and excitement.”

He frowned at her. “This is not a good time to be making the Guild question their trust of a common-born magician, Sonea, considering the change of rules about to be proposed.”

“Is there ever a good time for that?” She rose and sighed. “Besides, I didn’t destroy the Guild and turn all Kyralians into slaves, did I? I went for a walk. Nothing sinister at all.” She looked at him. “I haven’t left the city in twenty years, and have only left the Guild grounds to work in the hospices. Isn’t that enough?”

“Not for some. And certainly not for Kallen.”

Sonea shrugged. “I expect that from Kallen. It’s his job.” She hooked her hand around his elbow and they started back down the path. “Don’t worry about Kallen, Rothen. I can handle him. Besides, he wouldn’t dare complain about me visiting Akkarin’s grave.”

“You should have left a message for Jonna, saying where you were going.”

“I know, but these things tend to be a little spontaneous.”

He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

She smiled at him. “Yes. I have a son who is alive and thriving, hospices in the city where I can do some good, and you. What more do I need?”

He paused to think. “A husband?”

She laughed. “I don’t need a husband. I’m not sure I even want one. I thought I’d be lonely once Lorkin moved out of my rooms, but I’m finding I like having more time to myself. A husband would... get in the way.”

Rothen chuckled.

Or be a weakness an enemy could exploit, she found herself thinking. But that thought had more to do with Cery’s news sitting fresh in her mind than any real threat. While she was hardly without enemies, they merely disliked her for her lowly origins or feared the black magic she wielded. Nothing that would motivate any to the point of harming someone she loved. Otherwise they would have targeted Lorkin already.

As she thought of her son, memories rose of him as a child. Memories mixed together, older and younger, happy and disappointed, and she felt a familiar tight feeling that was part joy and part pain. When he was quiet and brooding, thinking hard or being clever, he reminded her so much of his father. But the confident, charming, stubborn, vocal side of him was so unlike Akkarin that she could only see a person who was unique and utterly himself and like no other. Except that Rothen claimed the stubborn and vocal part of his nature had definitely come from her.

As they emerged from the forest, Sonea looked down at the Guild grounds. Before them stood the Magicians’ Quarters, a long rectangular building that housed those magicians who chose to live in the grounds. At the far end was a courtyard, beyond which another building mirrored the placement and shape of the first – the Novices’ Quarters.

At the far end of the courtyard was the grandest of the Guild buildings, the University. Three storeys tall, it rose above all other Guild structures. Even after twenty years, Sonea felt a small glow of pride that she and Akkarin had saved this building. And, as always, it was followed by sadness and regret at the cost. If they had let the building fall, killing those that remained inside, and instead taken the power of the Arena, Akkarin might have lived.

But it wouldn’t have mattered how much power we’d gathered. Once he had been injured he would have still chosen to give me all his power and die rather than heal himself – or let me heal him – and risk us losing to the Ichani. And no matter how much power we’d taken, I’d never have had the time to defeat Kariko and heal Akkarin as well. She frowned. Maybe it isn’t me Lorkin gets his stubborn side from after all.

“Are you tempted to speak out in favour of the petition?” Rothen asked as they started down the path. “I know you’re in favour of abolishing the rule.”

She shook her head.

Rothen smiled. “Why not?”

“I might do more harm to their cause than good. After all, someone who grew up in the slums then went on to break a vow, learn forbidden magic, and defy the Higher Magicians and king to such a degree they were forced to send her into exile, is hardly going to inspire trust in lower-class-origin magicians.”

“You saved the country.”

“I helped Akkarin save the country. There’s a big difference.”

Rothen grimaced. “You played as great a part – and struck the final blow. They should remember that.”

“And Akkarin sacrificed himself. Even if I wasn’t slum-born and a woman, I’d have a hard time measuring up to that.” She shrugged. “I’m not interested in thanks and recognition, Rothen. All that matters to me is Lorkin and the hospices. And yourself, of course.”

He nodded. “But what if I told you that Lord Regin has offered to represent those opposed to the petition?”

She felt her stomach sink at the name. Though the novice who had tormented her during her early years in the University was now a grown man, married and with two adult daughters, and had only ever treated her politely and respectfully since the Ichani Invasion, she could not help feeling an echo of distrust and dislike.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “He’s always been a snob.”

“Yes, though his character has improved a great deal since your novice days.”

“So he’s a well-mannered snob.”

Rothen chuckled. “Tempted now?”

She shook her head again.

“Well, you had better expect to have your opinion sought on the issue,” he warned. “Many will want to know your views and seek your advice.”

As they reached the courtyard, Sonea sighed. “I doubt it. But in case you’re right I will consider how I’ll reply to any questions that come my way. I don’t want to be an obstruction to the petitioners, either.”

And if Regin is representing the opposition, I had better be alert to any clever tactics. His manners may have improved, but he’s still as intelligent and devious as ever.

There was a small, neat tailor’s shop in West Gliar Street in the North Quarter that, if you knew the right people, gave access to small, private rooms on the second floor offering entertainment to young, rich men of the city.

Lorkin had been brought here for the first time four years ago, by his friend and fellow novice, Dekker, along with the rest of their friends. As always, it had been Dekker’s idea. He was the boldest of Lorkin’s friends, though that was a typical trait of most young Warriors. Of the rest of the group, Alchemist Sherran had always done whatever Dekker suggested, but Healers Reater and Orlon were not so easily led into mischief. Perhaps it was only natural for Healers to be cautious. Whatever the reason, Lorkin had only agreed to accompany Dekker because the pair hadn’t refused to.

Four years later they were all graduated magicians, and the tailor’s shop was their favourite meeting place. Today Perler had brought his Elyne cousin, Jalie, to visit their haunt for the first time.

“So this is the tailor shop I’ve heard so much about,” a young woman said, looking around the room. The furniture was finely made, worn cast-offs from the wealthier houses in the city. The paintings and window screens were crude in both execution and subject.

“Yes,” Dekker replied. “All the delights you might desire.”

“At a price,” she said, looking at him sideways.

“At a price we may be willing to pay on your behalf, for the pleasure of your company.”

She smiled. “You’re so sweet!”

“But not without her older cousin’s approval,” Perler added, giving Dekker a level look.

“Of course,” the younger man said, bowing slightly in Perler’s direction.

“So what delights do they offer?” Jalie asked of Dekker.

He waved a hand. “Pleasures of the body, pleasures of the mind.”

“Of the mind?”

“Ooh! Let’s get a brazier in here,” Sherran said, his eyes gleaming. “Have a little roet to relax us.”

“No,” Lorkin said. Hearing another voice speak along with his, he turned to nod in gratitude to Orlon, who was as repelled by the drug as Lorkin was.

They had tried it once before, and Lorkin had found the experience disturbing. It wasn’t how it had brought out Dekker’s cruel side, so that he had teased and tormented the girl who had been besotted with him at the time, but how this behaviour suddenly hadn’t bothered Lorkin. In fact, he’d found it funny, but later could not understand why.

The girl’s infatuation had ended that day, and Sherran’s love affair with roet had begun. Before then, Sherran would have done anything Dekker had asked him. Since that day, he would only do so if it didn’t come between him and roet.

“Let’s have a drink instead,” Perler suggested. “Some wine.”

“Do magicians drink?” Jalie asked. “I thought they weren’t allowed to.”

“We are,” Reater told her, “but it’s not a good idea to get too drunk. Losing control is as likely to involve magic as much as your stomach or bladder.”

“I see,” she said. “So does the Guild have to make sure any of the lowies it takes in aren’t drunks?”

The others glanced at Lorkin, and he smiled, knowing that it wasn’t because his mother was a “lowie” but because they knew he would walk out if they made more than the occasional joke about the lower classes.

“There are probably more snooties that are drunks than lowies,” Dekker told her. “We have ways of dealing with them. What wine would you like to drink?”

Lorkin looked away as the conversation turned to wine varieties. “Lowies” and “snooties” were the names that the rich and poor novices had given each other after the Guild had decided to accept entrants to the university from outside of the Houses. The nickname “lowie” had been adopted because none of the novices that had come from lower classes were actually poor. All novices were paid a generous allowance by the Guild. As were magicians, though they could supplement their income by magical or other means. A term had to be invented, and it happened to be an unflattering one, so the lowies had retorted with their own nickname for novices from the Houses. One that Lorkin had to admit was appropriate.

Lorkin did not fit into either group. His mother had come from the slums, his father from one of the most powerful Houses in Imardin. He had grown up in the Guild, away from the political manipulations and obligations of the Houses or the hard life of the slums. Most of his friends were snooties. He hadn’t avoided befriending lowies deliberately, but most lowies, while not appearing to resent him like they did the snooties, had been hard to talk to. It was only after some years, when Lorkin had a firm circle of snooty friends, that he realised that the lowies had been intimidated by him – or rather, who his father had been.

“... Sachaka like? Do they really still keep slaves?”

Lorkin’s attention snapped back to the conversation, and he shivered. The name of the land from which his father’s murderer had come from always sent a chill down his spine. Yet while it had once been from fear, now it was also from a strange excitement. Since the Ichani Invasion the Allied Lands had turned their attention to the neighbour they’d once ignored. Magicians and diplomats had ventured into Sachaka, seeking to avoid future conflict through negotiation, trade and agreements. Whenever they returned they brought descriptions of a strange culture and stranger landscape.

“They do,” Perler replied. Lorkin sat up a little straighter. Reater’s older brother had returned from Sachaka a few weeks ago, having spent a year working as the assistant to the Guild Ambassador to Sachaka. “Though you don’t see most of them. Your robes disappear from your room and reappear cleaned, but you never see who takes them. But you see the slave assigned to serve you, of course. We all have one.”

“So you had a slave?” Sherran asked. “Isn’t that against the king’s law?”

“They don’t belong to us,” Perler replied, shrugging. “The Sachakans don’t know how to treat servants properly, so we have to let them assign us slaves. Either that or we’d have to wash our own clothes and cook our own meals.”

“Which would be terrible,” Lorkin said in mock horror. His mother’s aunt was her servant, and her family worked as servants for rich families, yet they had a dignity and resourcefulness that he respected. He was determined that, should he ever have to do domestic chores, he would never be as humiliated by it as his fellow magicians would be.

Perler looked at him and shook his head. “There’d be no time to do it ourselves. There’s always so much work to do. Ah, here are the drinks.”

“What sort of work?” Orlon asked as glasses of wine or water were poured and handed around.

“Negotiating trade deals, trying to encourage the Sachakans to abolish slavery in order to join the Allied Lands, keeping up with Sachakan politics – there is a group of rebels Ambassador Maron heard of that he was trying to find out more about, until he had to return to sort out his family’s troubles.”

“Sounds boring,” Dekker said.

“Actually, it was rather exciting.” Perler grinned. “A little scary at times, but I felt like we were doing something, well, historic. Making a difference. Changing things for the better – even if in tiny steps.”

Lorkin felt a strange thrill go through him. “Do you think they’re coming around on slavery?” he asked.

Perler shrugged. “Some are, but it’s hard to tell if they’re pretending to agree in order to be polite, or gain something from us. Maron thinks they could be persuaded to give up slavery much more easily than black magic.”

“It’s going to be hard to persuade them to give up black magic when we have two black magicians,” Reater pointed out. “Seems a bit hypocritical.”

“Once they ban black magic we will, too,” Perler said confidently.

Dekker turned to grin at Lorkin. “If that happens Lorkin won’t be taking over from his mother.”

Lorkin gave a snort of derision. “As if she’d let me. She’d much rather I took over running the hospices.”

“Would that be so bad?” Orlon asked quietly. “Just because you chose Alchemy doesn’t mean you couldn’t help out the Healers.”

“You need to be driven by absolute, unwavering dedication to run something like a hospice,” Lorkin replied. “I’m not. Though I almost wish I was.”

“Why?” Jalie asked.

Lorkin spread his hands. “I’d like to do something useful with my life.”

“Pah!” Dekker said. “If you can afford to spend your life indulging yourself, why wouldn’t you?”

“Boredom?” Orlon suggested.

“Who is bored?” a new, feminine voice said.

A completely different sort of thrill ran down Lorkin’s spine. He felt his breath catch in his throat, and his stomach clenched unpleasantly. All turned to see a dark-haired young woman slip through the door. She smiled as she looked around the room. As her eyes met Lorkin’s, her smile faltered, but only for a moment.

“Beriya.” He spoke her name almost without wanting to, and he instantly hated how it came out in a weak, pathetic gasp.

“Come join us,” Dekker invited.

No, Lorkin wanted to say. But he was supposed to be over Beriya. It had been two years since her family had taken her away to Elyne. As she sat down, he looked away as if uninterested in her, and tried to relax the muscles that had stiffened the moment he’d heard her voice. Which was most of them.

She was the first woman he’d fallen in love with – and so far the only one. They’d met at every opportunity, openly and in secret. Every waking moment she had been in his thoughts, and she’d claimed it was the same for her. He would have done anything for her.

Some people had encouraged them, some people had made half-hearted attempts to help him keep his feet on the ground – at least when it came to his magical studies. The trouble was, there was no reason for either his mother or Beriya’s family to disapprove of the pairing. And it turned out that he was the sort who became so entranced when in love that no amount of sympathy or stern lectures, not even from Lord Rothen, who he respected and loved like a favourite grandfather, could keep him anchored in reality. Everyone had decided to wait until he recovered his mind enough to concentrate on something other than Beriya, then help him catch up with his training.

Then her cousin had discovered them in bed together and her family had insisted that the two of them marry as soon as possible. It did not matter that he, as a magician, could prevent Beriya becoming pregnant. If they did not marry, she would be regarded as “spoiled” to any future suitor.

Lorkin, and his mother, had agreed. It was Beriya who had refused.

She also refused to see him. When he finally managed to ambush her one day, she had told him she had never loved him. That she had encouraged him because she had heard that magicians could make love without the danger of siring a child. That she was sorry for lying to him.

His mother had told him that the awful way he felt was the closest that most magicians came to knowing what it felt like for a non-magician to be sick. The best cure was time and the kindness of family and friends. And then she’d used some words to describe Beriya’s behaviour that he could not have repeated in the company of most people he knew.

Fortunately, Beriya’s family had taken her away to Elyne, so by the time the hurt subsided enough for him to feel anger she was well out of sight. He’d vowed not to fall in love again, but when a girl in his Alchemy class had shown an interest, his resolve had weakened. He liked her practical nature. She was everything Beriya hadn’t been. A strange hypocrisy existed in Kyralian culture: nobody expected women magicians to remain celibate. But by the time he’d realised that he didn’t love her, she was well and truly infatuated with him. He’d done all he could to end that entanglement as gently as possible, but he knew she now resented him deeply.

Love, he’d decided, was one messy business.

Beriya moved to a chair and sank into it gracefully. “So who is bored?” she asked.

As the others denied it, Lorkin considered her and the lessons he’d learned. In the last year he’d met a few women who were both good company and good lovers, and wanted no more than that. He’d found he preferred this sort of encounter. The seductions that Dekker undertook, which only ended in hurt and scandal – or worse – did not appeal. And the affectionless marriage that Reater had been forced into by his parents sounded like his worst nightmare.

Father’s family hasn’t attempted to find me a bride in a while now. Maybe they’re starting to realise how much pleasure Mother gets from spoiling all their plans for me. Though I’m sure she wouldn’t block anything if I wanted it.

He dragged his thoughts back to the present as the conversation turned to the exploits of mutual friends of Beriya and Dekker. Lorkin listened and let the afternoon slip by. Eventually the two Healers left to visit the new racecourse, and Beriya left for a dress fitting. Dekker, Sherran and Jalie set off on foot to their family homes, which were in the same main street of the Inner Circle, leaving Lorkin to return to the Guild alone.

Walking through the streets of the Inner Circle, Lorkin looked at the grand buildings thoughtfully. This place had been his home all his life. He had never lived outside of it. Never been to a foreign country. Never even left the city. Ahead he could see the Guild Gates.

Are they the bars of a prison to me, or a wall to keep out danger? Beyond was the front of the University, where his parents had once fought Sachakan black magicians in a last desperate battle. Those magicians were only Ichani, the Sachakan version of outcast criminals. How would that battle have ended if they’d been Ashaki, black-magic-wielding noble warriors? We were lucky to have won that battle. Everyone knows that. Black Magician Kallen and my mother may not be able to save us if the Sachakans ever decide to invade us properly.

A familiar figure was approaching the gates from within. As the man passed through them, Lorkin smiled. He knew Lord Dannyl through his mother and Lord Rothen. It had been a while since he’d seen the historian. As always, Dannyl wore a slightly distracted frown, and Lorkin knew the older magician could easily walk past without seeing him.

— Lord Dannyl, Lorkin called, keeping his mental voice quiet. Mental communication was frowned upon, since it could be heard by all magicians – whether friends or enemies. But calling another magician’s name was considered safe, as doing so gave away little information to anyone listening.

The tall magician looked up, saw Lorkin, and his frown disappeared. They walked toward each other, meeting at the entrance of the street Dannyl lived on.

“Lord Lorkin. How are things?”

Lorkin shrugged. “Well enough. How’s your research going?”

Dannyl frowned down at the bundle he was carrying. “The Great Library sent some records that I hoped would provide more details of the state of Imardin after Tagin’s death.”

Lorkin could not remember who Tagin was, but he nodded anyway. Dannyl had been caught up in his history of magic for so long he often forgot that other people did not know the details as well as he. It must be a relief to know what you want to dedicate your life to, Lorkin thought. None of this wondering what to do with yourself.

“How... how did you come up with the idea to write a history of magic?” Lorkin asked.

Dannyl looked at Lorkin and shrugged. “The task found me,” he said. “I sometimes wish it hadn’t, but then I find some new piece of information and,” he smiled wryly, “I remember how important it is that the past isn’t lost. History has lessons to teach us, and perhaps one day I’ll stumble on some secret that will benefit us.”

“Like black magic?” Lorkin suggested.

Dannyl grimaced. “Maybe something that doesn’t involve as much risk and sacrifice.”

Lorkin felt his heart skip. “Another sort of defensive magic? That would be a great thing to find.” It would not only free the Guild from having to use black magic, but could either provide a defence against the Sachakans, or persuade the Sachakans to give up black magic and slavery and join the Allied Lands. If I found such a thing... but this is Dannyl’s idea, not mine...

Dannyl shrugged. “I might find nothing at all. But to find the truth, record and preserve it, is achievement enough, for me.”

Well... if Dannyl doesn’t care... would he mind if someone else searched for an alternative to black magic? Would he mind if I did? A tingle of hope ran down Lorkin’s spine.

Lorkin took a deep breath. “Could... could I look at the work you’ve done so far?”

The older magician’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. I’ll be interested to hear what you think of it. You might notice something I haven’t.” He looked down the street, then shrugged. “Why don’t you join Tayend and me for dinner? Afterwards I’ll show you my notes and sources, and explain the gaps in history I’m trying to plug.”

Lorkin found himself nodding. “Thank you.” If he went back to his room in the Guild, he’d only end up alternating between brooding over Beriya and telling himself his life was better without her. “I’m sure it’ll be fascinating.”

Dannyl gestured toward his house, a grand two-storey building he had rented since retiring from the position of Guild Ambassador to Elyne. Though it was known that Dannyl and Tayend were more than mere friends, little was said about it these days. Dannyl had chosen to live in the city rather than the Guild grounds because, as he said, “it’s an agreement of sorts: the Guild pretends blindness, so we give them nothing to see.”

“Do you need to return to the Guild first?”

Lorkin shook his head. “No, but if you need to give Tayend and the servants some warning—”

“No, they won’t mind. Tayend brings unexpected visitors to the house all the time. Our servants are used to it.”

He beckoned and started toward his home, and Lorkin fell into step beside him.

Chapter 3
Safe Places, Dangerous Destinations

“His desk is always such a mess,” Tayend told Lorkin. As Dannyl frowned at the scholar, Tayend grinned, the few lines crossing his forehead smoothing out. Nobody would guess that he’s more than forty years old, Dannyl thought. I’m turning into a wrinkly skeleton while Tayend... Tayend looked better than ever, he noted. He’d put on a little weight, but it suited him.

“It only looks disorganised,” Dannyl said, not for the first time. “I know where everything is.”

Tayend chuckled. “I’m sure it’s just a ploy to ensure nobody can steal his research and ideas.” He grinned at Lorkin. “Now, don’t let him bore you to death. If you feel your mind is starting to shrivel up, come talk to me, and we’ll open another bottle of wine.”

Lorkin smiled and nodded. “I will.”

The scholar waved a hand in farewell, then effected a jaunty walk as he left the room. Dannyl resisted rolling his eyes and sighing, and turned back to Sonea’s son. The young man was eyeing the piles of documents and books on Dannyl’s desk doubtfully.

“There is order to the madness,” Dannyl assured him. “It starts at the back. That first pile contains everything relating to the earliest records of magic. It’s full of descriptions of places like the Tomb of White Tears, and a lot of conjecture about what the glyphs suggest magic was used for.” Dannyl took out the sketches Tayend had made when they had visited the Tombs over twenty years before. He pointed out the glyph of a man kneeling before a woman, who was touching his upraised palms. “This glyph means ‘high magic’.”

“Black magic?”

“Perhaps. But it might be Healing magic. It may be only coincidence that our predecessors called black magic ‘higher magic’.” Dannyl leafed through the pile and another sketch, this time of a crescent moon and hand, flipped into view.

“What is that?” Lorkin asked.

“A symbol we found in the ruined city of Armje. It was a symbol that represented the royal family of that city like an incal symbolises a Kyralian House. Armje is thought to have been abandoned over two thousand years ago.”

“What was the symbol written on?”

“It was carved above house lintels, and we saw it once on what I suspect was a blood ring.” Dannyl smiled as he remembered Dem Ladeiri, the eccentric noble and collector he and Tayend had stayed with in an old castle in the Elyne mountains, near Armje. Then he felt his smile fade as he remembered the underground chamber he’d found in the ruins, called the “Cavern of Ultimate Punishment.” Strange crystalline walls had attacked him with magic and would have killed him if Tayend hadn’t dragged him out just as his shield had failed.

The former High Lord, Akkarin, had asked Dannyl to keep the Cavern a secret to prevent other magicians stumbling inside to their death. After the Ichani Invasion, Dannyl had told the new High Lord, Balkan, of the Cavern, and the Guild leader had ordered him to record what he knew, but also to keep it secret. When the book was finished, Balkan would reconsider whether to allow others to know of the place.

Has Balkan sent anyone there to investigate? I can’t imagine the Warrior would be able to resist trying to find out how the Cavern works. Especially as it has so much potential as a defensive weapon.

“So they knew how to make blood rings two thousand years ago?”

Dannyl looked up at Lorkin, then nodded. “And who knows what else? But that knowledge was lost.” He pointed to the second, smaller pile. “This is all I have relating to the time before the Sachakan Empire conquered Kyralia and Elyne, over a thousand years ago. The few records that we have only survived from that time because they are copies, and they suggest that there were only two or three magicians, and that those had limited skills and power.”

“So if the people who knew how to make blood rings, and whatever high magic was, died without passing that knowledge on...”

“... whether because they didn’t trust anyone enough to teach them, or they never found anyone gifted enough to teach.”

Lorkin looked thoughtful – and definitely not bored, Dannyl noted with relief. The young magician’s attention moved to the third pile.

“Three centuries of Sachakan rule,” Dannyl told him. “I’ve more than doubled the information we have from that time, though that wasn’t hard because there was so little to begin with.”

“A time when Kyralians were slaves,” Lorkin said, his expression grim.

“And slave owners,” Dannyl reminded him. “I believe that the Sachakans brought higher magic to Kyralia.”

Lorkin stared at him in disbelief. “Surely they wouldn’t have taught their enemy black magic!”

“Why not? After Kyralia had been conquered it became part of the Empire. The Sachakans didn’t kill every noble, only those who would not swear allegiance to the Empire. There would have been intermarriage, and mixed blood heirs. Three hundred years is a long time. Kyralians would have been citizens of Sachaka.”

“But they still fought to regain their land, and to get rid of slavery.”

“Yes.” Dannyl patted the top of the pile. “And that is clearly recorded in documents and letters leading up to and following the emperor’s decision to grant Kyralia and Elyne their independence. Both countries abolished slavery, though there was some resistance.”

Lorkin looked at the pile of books, documents and notes. “That’s not what we’re taught in the University.”

Dannyl chuckled. “No. And the version of history you were taught was even less sanitised than what I learned as a novice.” He tapped the next pile. “My generation never knew that Kyralian magicians once used black magic, taking strength from their apprentices in exchange for magical teaching. It was one of the most difficult truths for us to accept.”

The younger magician eyed the fourth pile of books with cautious curiosity. “Are they the books my father found under the Guild?”

“Some of them are copies of what he unearthed. With any dangerous information about black magic removed.”

“How are you going to write a history of that time without including information about black magic?”

Dannyl shrugged. “So long as there’s nothing instructive, there is no danger of anyone learning how to use it from what I write.”

“But... Mother says that you have to learn black magic from the mind of a black magician. Surely you can’t learn it from books?”

“We don’t think it can be, but we’re not taking the risk.”

Lorkin nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So... the Sachakan War is next? That’s a big stack of books.”

“Yes.” Dannyl regarded the generous pile of books and records beside the “independence” one. “I sent out word that I wanted records from that time, and I’ve received a steady stream of diaries, accounts and records from throughout the Allied Lands ever since.” At the top of the pile was a little book he’d found in the Great Library twenty years ago, that had first alerted him to the possibility that the Guild’s version of history might be wrong.

“You must have that time well covered.”

“Not completely.” Dannyl told him. “Most of these records are from lands other than Kyralia. There are still gaps in the history. We know that Kyralian magicians drove the Sachakan invaders out and won the war, and then conquered and ruled Sachaka for a time. We know that the wasteland that weakened the country wasn’t created for several years after the war. But we don’t know how they kept the Sachakan magicians under control, or how they created the wasteland.” And what is the treasure that the Elynes claimed to have loaned or given to the Kyralians, which was then lost, along with its secrets? Dannyl felt a familiar, strangely pleasant frustration. There were still mysteries to be explored, and this was one of the more intriguing ones.

“Why don’t you have records from Kyralia?”

Dannyl sighed. “It’s possible they were destroyed when the Guild banned black magic. Or they might have been lost during the war. So much of history has been muddled. For instance: we’re taught that Imardin was levelled during the Sachakan War, but I now have maps from before and after the war that show a similar street pattern. A few hundred years later, however, we have an entirely new street pattern – the one we know today.”

“So... the age of the maps is wrong, or something levelled the city later. Did anything dramatic happen after the Sachakan War?”

Dannyl nodded and picked up the book on top of the next, much smaller pile. Lorkin hummed in recognition.

“The Guild Record.” His eyes widened in understanding. “The Mad Apprentice did it!” Lorkin reached out and took the book, flicking to the final entries. “It is over,” he read. “When Alyk told me the news I dared not believe it, but an hour ago I climbed the stairs of the Lookout and saw the truth with my own eyes. It is true. Tagin is dead. Only he could have created such destruction in his final moments. His power was released and destroyed the city.”

Dannyl sighed, shook his head, took the book off Lorkin and put it back on the pile. “Tagin had just defeated the Guild. He could not have had that much power left. Not enough to level a city.”

“Perhaps you’re underestimating him, as the Guild of the time clearly did.”

The young magician’s eyebrows rose expectantly. Dannyl almost smiled at the challenge. Lorkin had been an intelligent novice, willing to question all of his teachers.

“Perhaps I am.” Dannyl looked down at the small pile of documents and books. “The Guild... well, it is as though they didn’t set out only to wipe out all knowledge of black magic, but also the embarrassing fact that a mere apprentice had nearly destroyed them. If it weren’t for Recordkeeper Gilken, we wouldn’t even have the books Akkarin found to tell us what happened.”

Gilken had saved and buried information about black magic out of fear that the Guild would need it for the land’s defence one day. We had five hundred years of peace in which to forget about the stash, that we had ever used black magic at all, and that over the mountains our ancient enemy, Sachaka, still practised it. If Akkarin hadn’t found the stash – and learned black magic – we would now be dead or slaves.

“The final pile,” Lorkin said. Dannyl saw that Lorkin was looking at a thick, leather-bound notebook at the end of the table.

“Yes.” Dannyl picked it up. “It contains the stories I collected from those who witnessed the Ichani Invasion.”

“Including my mother’s?”

“Of course.”

Lorkin nodded, then smiled wryly. “Well, that must be the one part of history you don’t need to do more research on.”

“No,” Dannyl agreed.

The young magician’s gaze moved across the piles of books, documents and records. “I’d like to read what you have. And... is there a way I can help with the research?”

Dannyl regarded Lorkin in surprise. He would never have guessed that Sonea’s son had an interest in history. Perhaps the young man was bored and looking for something to put his mind to. He might lose interest quickly, especially once he realised that Dannyl had already exhausted all sources of information. There was little chance either of them would ever fill the gaps in history.

If he loses interest, there will be no harm done. I can’t see why I shouldn’t let him give it a try.

And a fresh eye, a different approach, might unveil new discoveries.

And it would be good to have someone here in Kyralia familiar with the work Dannyl had done so far, if he decided to leave to pursue any new sources of information.

Which might happen sooner rather than later.

Since the Ichani Invasion, Sachaka and Kyralia had been watching each other closely. Fortunately, both sides were keen to avoid future conflicts. Both had sent an Ambassador and an assistant to the other country. No other magicians were allowed to cross the border, however.

Dannyl had questioned the Guild Ambassadors sent to Sachaka over the years, asking them to seek out material for his book. They had provided some information, but they did not know what to look for, and what they sent had contained tantalising hints at uncensored records with a fresh perspective on historical events.

The position of Ambassador became available every few years, but Dannyl hadn’t applied for it. Partly because he had been afraid to. The thought of entering a land of black magicians was daunting. He was used to taking for granted that he was one of the powerful people in his society. In Sachaka he would not only be weak and vulnerable, but by all accounts Sachakan higher magicians regarded magicians who did not know black magic with distaste, distrust or derision.

They were growing used to the idea though, he’d been told. They treated Guild Ambassadors with more respect these days. They’d even protested when the most recent Ambassador had to return to Kyralia, due to problems with his family’s finances. They had actually grown to like him.

Which left a gap open for a new Ambassador that Dannyl found too hard to resist. He had worked in the position before, in Elyne, so he felt confident that the Higher Magicians would consider him for the place. If it did not work out he could simply come home early – and he would not be the first to do so. While he was in Sachaka he could seek records that might fill in the gaps in his history of magic, and perhaps discover new magical histories.

“Lord Dannyl?”

Dannyl looked up at Lorkin, then smiled. “I’d be delighted to have a fellow magician help me in my research. When would you like to start?”

“Would tomorrow be convenient?” Lorkin looked at the table. “I have a lot of reading to do, I suspect.”

“Of course it is,” Dannyl replied. “Though... we should ask Tayend what he has planned. Let’s go talk to him now – and have that bottle of wine.”

As he led the young magician to the guest room where Tayend usually relaxed during most evenings, Dannyl’s thoughts returned to Sachaka.

I have run out of sources. I can think of nowhere else I might find the missing pieces of my history. The opportunity has come and I think I have the courage to take it.

But the other reason he had never sought to visit Sachaka was that it meant leaving Tayend behind. The scholar would have to gain permission from the Elyne king to go to Sachaka, and it was unlikely he would be granted it. Partly this was because Tayend wasn’t well known or in favour in court, and hadn’t been so even before he’d moved to Kyralia to live with Dannyl. Partly it was because he was a “lad” – a man who preferred men over women. Sachakan society wasn’t as accepting of lads as Elyne society was. It was more like Kyralian society – such things were hidden and ignored. The Elyne king would not want to risk offending a land that could still easily defeat it by sending a man they would disapprove of into their midst.

But what about me? Why do I think the Kyralian king or the Guild won’t reject my application for the same reason?

The truth was, Tayend wasn’t as good as Dannyl at hiding what he was. Not long after settling in Imardin, the scholar had gathered a circle of friends around him. He’d been delighted to find there were as many lads in the Kyralian Houses as in the Elyne elite class, and they had enthusiastically embraced his Elyne habit of holding parties. They called themselves the Secret Club. Yet the club was not particularly secret. Plenty in Kyralian society knew of it, and many had expressed disapproval.

Dannyl knew that his discomfort came from long years of hiding his nature. Maybe I’m a coward, or perhaps overly prudent, but I’d rather keep my personal life... well... personal. With Tayend I never got the choice. He never asked me how I wanted to live, or if I was comfortable with the whole of Kyralia knowing what we are.

There was more to his resentment than that, however. Over the years, more and more of Tayend’s attention had gone to his friends. Though there were a few in the group whose company Dannyl enjoyed, most were spoilt higher-class brats. And sometimes Tayend was more like them than the young man Dannyl had travelled with all those years ago.

Dannyl sighed. He did not want to travel with the man Tayend had become. He was a little afraid that being stuck with each other in another land would cause them to part permanently. He also could not help wondering if some time apart would make them appreciate each other’s company more.

But while a few weeks’ or months’ separation might do us good, could we survive two years apart?

As he entered the guest room and found that Tayend had already opened the bottle and drunk half the contents, he shook his head.

If he was ever going to fill in the gaps of this history of magic – this great work of his life – he could not sit around hoping that someone would send him the right record or document. He had to seek the answers for himself, even if it meant risking his life, or leaving Tayend behind.

One thing I’m sure of. For all that there are sides of Tayend that I don’t like, I care enough about him to not want to risk his life. He’s going to want to come with me, and I’m going to refuse to take him.

And Tayend was not going to be happy about it. Not happy at all.

She hadn’t grown any taller since Cery had last seen her. Her dark hair had been cut badly, uneven where it barely touched her shoulders. Her fringe swept sharply to one side, covering one of her knife-slash straight brows. And her eyes... those eyes that had always made him weak since the first time he’d seen her. Large, dark and expressive.

But at the moment all they expressed was a ruthless, unblinking determination as she bartered with a customer almost half again her height and weight. Cery couldn’t hear what was being said, but her confidence and defiance stirred a foolish pride.

Anyi. My daughter, he thought. My only daughter. And now my only living child...

Something wrenched inside him as memories of his sons’ broken bodies rushed in. He pushed them away, but the shock and fear lingered. He could not let the grief distract him, for his daughter’s sake as well as his own. For all he knew, someone was watching and waiting for a moment of weakness, ready to strike.

“What should I do, Gol?” he murmured. They were in a private room on the top floor of a bolhouse, which overlooked the market his daughter’s stall belonged to.

His bodyguard stirred, started to turn toward the window, then stopped himself. He looked at Cery, his gaze uncertain.

“Don’t know. Seems to me there’s danger in talking to her and danger in not.”

“And wasting time deciding is the same as deciding not to.”

“Yes. How much do you trust Donia?”

Cery considered Gol’s question. The owner of the bolhouse, who offered various “services” on the side, was an old childhood friend. Cery had helped her establish the place when her husband, Cery’s old friend Harrin, died of a fever five years ago. His men prevented gangs from extracting protection money from her. Even if she hadn’t had such a long connection with him, or she’d not been grateful for the help he’d given her, she owed him money and knew the ways of Thieves well enough to know you did not betray them without consequences.

“Better than anyone else.”

Gol gave a short laugh. “Which isn’t much.”

“No, but I’ve already got her keeping an eye on Anyi, though she don’t know why. She hasn’t let me down.”

“Then it won’t seem odd if you ask for the girl to be brought to a face-to-face, right?”

“Not odd, but... she’d be curious.” Cery sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

Gol straightened. “I’ll go sort things, and make sure no one’s listening.”

Cery considered the man, then nodded. He glanced out of the window as his bodyguard headed toward the door and noticed a new customer had replaced the last. Anyi watched as the man ran a finger across the blade of one of her knives to test its edge. “And make sure her stall is watched while she’s here.”

“Of course.”

After some minutes had passed, four men emerged from the bolhouse and approached Anyi’s stall. Cery noted that the other stallholders pretended to pay no attention. One of the men spoke to Anyi. She shook her head and glared at him. When he reached out toward her arm she stepped back and, with lightning speed, produced a knife and pointed it at him. He raised his hands, palms outward.

A long conversation followed. Anyi lowered the knife slowly, but did not put it away or stop glaring at him. A few times she glanced fleetingly toward the bolhouse. Finally, she raised her chin and, as he stepped back from her stall, strode past and toward the bolhouse, putting away her knife.

Cery let out the breath he’d been holding, and realised his stomach was all unsettled and his heart was beating too fast. Suddenly he wished he’d managed to sleep last night. He wanted to be fully alert. Not to make any mistakes. Not to miss a moment of this one meeting with his daughter that he hoped he could afford to allow himself. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, and then she had still been a child. Now she was a young woman. Young men probably sought her attention and her bed...

Let’s not think too much about that, he told himself.

He heard voices and footsteps in the stairwell outside the room, coming closer. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the doorway. There was a moment of silence, then a familiar male voice said something encouraging, and a single pair of footsteps continued.

As she peered around the doorway, Cery considered smiling, but knew that he would not be able to find enough genuine good humour for it to be convincing. He settled on returning her stare with what he hoped was a welcoming seriousness.

She blinked, her eyes widened, then she scowled and strode into the room.

“You!” she said. “I might’ve guessed it’d be you.”

Her eyes were ablaze with anger and accusation. She stopped a few steps away. He did not flinch at her stare, though it stirred a familiar guilt.

“Yes. Me,” he said. “Sit down. I need to talk to you.”

“Well I don’t want to talk to you!” she declared and turned to leave.

“As if you have any choice.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Slowly she turned to face him, crossing her arms.

“What do you want?” she asked, then sighed dramatically. He almost smiled at that. The sullen resignation laced with contempt was what many a father endured from youngsters her age. But her resignation came more from the knowledge he was a Thief, not any respect for fatherly authority.

“To warn you. Your life is... in even more danger than it usually is. There’s a good chance someone will try to kill you soon.”

Her expression did not change. “Oh? Why is that?”

He shrugged. “The mere unfortunate fact that you are my daughter.”

“Well, I’ve survived that well enough so far.”

“This is different. This is a lot... wilder.”

She rolled her eyes. “Nobody uses that word any more.”

“Then I am a nobody.” He frowned. “I am serious, Anyi. Do you think I’d risk our lives by meeting with you if I wasn’t sure not meeting could be worse?”

All contempt and anger fled from her face, but left her with no expression he could read. Then she looked away.

“Why are you so sure?”

He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Because my wife and sons are dead. Pain swelled within him at the thought. I’m not sure I can say it aloud. He cast about, then took another deep breath.

“Because, as of last night, you are my only living child,” he told her.

Her eyes slowly widened as the news sank in. She swallowed and closed her eyes. For a moment she remained still, a crease between her brows, then she opened her eyes and fixed him with her stare again.

“Have you told Sonea?”

He frowned at the question. Why had she asked? Her mother had always been a touch jealous of Sonea, perhaps sensing that he had once been in love with the slum girl turned magician. Surely Anyi hadn’t inherited Vesta’s jealousy. Or did Anyi know more about Cery’s continuing and secret link to the Guild than she ought to?

How to answer such a question? Should he answer at all? He considered changing the subject, but found himself curious to know how she would react to the truth.

“I have,” he told her. Then he shrugged. “Along with other information.”

Anyi nodded and said nothing, giving frustratingly little away of her reason for asking. She sighed and shifted her weight to one leg.

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Is there somewhere safe you can go? People you trust? I’d offer to protect you except... well, let’s just say it turned out your mother made the right decision leaving me and...” He heard bitterness in his voice and shifted to other reasons. “My own people may have been turned. It would be better if you did not rely on them. Except Gol, of course. Though... it would be wise if we had a way of contacting each other.”

She nodded and he was heartened to see her straighten with determination. “I’ll be fine,” she told him. “I have... friends.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. That was all she was going to tell him, he guessed. Wise move.

“Good,” he said. He stood up. “Take care, Anyi.”

She regarded him thoughtfully, and for a moment the corner of her mouth twitched. He felt a sudden rush of hope that she understood why he had kept away from her all these years.

Then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room without waiting for permission or saying goodbye.

Chapter 4
New Commitments

The trees and shrubs of the Guild gardens cooled and slowed the late summer wind to a pleasant breeze. Within one of the garden “rooms,” well shaded by a large ornamental pachi tree, Lorkin and Dekker sat on one of the seats arranged here and there for magicians to rest on. As the last shreds of his hangover began to ease, Lorkin leaned back against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. The sound of birds mingled with that of distant voices and footsteps – and the shrill sound of taunts and protests somewhere behind him.

Dekker turned to look at the same time as Lorkin. Behind them was a screen of shrubs and trees, so they both stood up to peer over the top of the foliage. Over the other side, four boys had surrounded another and were pushing their victim about.

“Stu-pid lo-wie,” they sang. “Got no fam-ly. Al-ways gri-my. Al-ways smel-ly.”

“Hai!” Dekker shouted. “Stop that! Or I’ll get you volunteered to help in the hospices.”

Lorkin grimaced. His mother had never been happy with Lady Vinara’s idea of punishing novices by making them help in the hospices. She said they’d never consider the work worthwhile or noble if they were expected to want to avoid it. But she never had enough volunteers, so she couldn’t bring herself to protest. Some of those sent to her for punishing had actually chosen the healing discipline because working with her had inspired them, but they were mocked quietly by their fellow novices.

The novices muttered apologies and fled in different directions. As Lorkin and Dekker sat down again, two magicians appeared in the entrance to the garden room.

“Ah! I thought I heard your voice, Dekker,” Reater said. Perler’s worried frown faded as he recognised his brother’s friends. “Mind if we join you?”

“Not at all,” Dekker said, gesturing to the opposite bench seat.

Lorkin looked from one brother to another, wondering at the reason for the frown Perler had been wearing. Reater seemed far too glad to have stumbled upon them.

“Perler got some bad news this morning,” Reater said. He turned to his brother. “Tell them.”

Perler glanced at Reater. “Not bad for you, I hope.” His brother shrugged and did not answer, so he sighed and looked at Dekker. “Lord Maron has quit. It’s going to take longer than he thought to fix his family’s troubles. So I’m not going back to Sachaka.”

“You don’t get to assist the new Ambassador?” Lorkin asked.

Perler shrugged. “I could if I wanted to. But...” He looked at his brother. “I have a few family matters to take care of, too.”

Reater winced.

“So who is going to replace him?” Dekker wondered.

“Someone said Lord Dannyl has applied.” Reater grinned. “Perhaps he wants to check out the local—”

“Reater,” Perler said sternly.

“What? Everyone knows he’s a lad.”

“Which doesn’t make it funny when you make crude jokes about it. Grow up and get over it.” He rolled his eyes. “Besides, Lord Dannyl won’t want to go. He’s too busy researching that book of his.”

Lorkin felt his heart skip. “He told me last night that his research was going slowly. Maybe... maybe he’s hoping to do some research there.”

Reater looked sidelong at his brother. “That change your mind? Ow!” He rubbed his arm where Perler had just punched it. “That hurt.”

“Which was the point.” Perler looked thoughtful. “It’ll be interesting to see if anyone volunteers to be his assistant. Most people might be willing to ignore Lord Dannyl’s ways, but risking speculation by offering to assist him is probably beyond most.”

Lorkin shrugged. “I’d go.”

The others turned to stare at him. Lorkin looked around at their shocked faces, and laughed.

“No, I’m not a lad. But Lord Dannyl has always been easy to get along with and his research is interesting – and worthwhile. I’d be proud to take part in it.” To his surprise, they continued to look worried. Except Perler, he noted.

“But... Sachaka,” Reater said.

“Would that be wise?” Dekker asked.

Lorkin looked from one to the other. “Perler survived. Why not me?”

“Because your parents killed some Sachakans a few years back,” Dekker pointed out in a tone suggesting Lorkin was stupid. “They tend to take exception to that.”

Lorkin spread his hands to encompass the Guild. “So did all magicians during the battle, as did the novices. What difference is there in that to what my parents did?”

Dekker opened his mouth, but nothing came out and he closed it again. He looked at Perler, who chuckled.

“Don’t look to me for support on this one,” the older magician said. “Lorkin’s parentage might make him a little more interesting to the Sachakans than other magicians, but so long as he doesn’t point it out all the time, I doubt he’d be in any more danger than I was.” He looked at Lorkin. “Still, I’d let the Higher Magicians decide that. There may be a reason why you shouldn’t go that they’ve kept to themselves.”

Lorkin turned to regard Dekker triumphantly. His friend looked at him, frowned, then shook his head.

“Don’t go volunteering just to prove me wrong.”

Lorkin laughed. “Would I do that?”

“Probably.” Dekker smiled wryly. “Or just to annoy me. Knowing what your family is like, you’ll turn out to be instrumental in convincing the Sachakans to give up slavery and join with the Allied Lands, and within a few years I’ll find myself actually teaching Warrior Skills to Sachakan novices.”

Smothering the urge to grimace, Lorkin forced a smile. There it is again. This expectation that I’ll do something important. But that’s never going to happen while I sit around in the Guild, doing nothing.

“That’ll do for a start,” he said. “Anything else?”

Dekker made a rude noise and looked away. “Invent a wine that doesn’t cause hangovers and I’ll forgive you anything.”

Stepping inside the University, Sonea and Rothen passed through the rear entry hall into the main corridor. It led directly to a huge room, three storeys high, within the middle of the building known as the Great Hall. Glass panels covered the roof, allowing light to fill the space.

Contained within this room was an older, simpler building: the Guildhall. It had been the original home of the Guild, and when the grander structure of the University had been built around it the old building’s internal walls had been removed and the interior turned into a hall for regular Meets and occasional Hearings.

Today’s gathering was an open Hearing, which meant that while only the Higher Magicians were required to attend, any other magician was free to do so as well. Sonea was both heartened and dismayed to see the large crowd of magicians waiting at the far end of the hall. It’s good to see so many taking an interest, but I can’t help doubting that many are in favour of the petition.

The Higher Magicians were hovering around the side entrance of the Guildhall. High Lord Balkan stood with his arms crossed and was frowning down at the man speaking to him. His white robes emphasised his height and broad shoulders, but also betrayed a softness and fullness where he had once been muscular. His duties as High Lord kept him away from practising Warrior Skills, she guessed. Not that magical battles kept a magician that fit, anyway.

The man he was frowning at was Administrator Osen. Sonea could not see the blue of the Administrator’s robe without remembering his predecessor and feeling a pang of guilt and sadness. Administrator Lorlen had died during the Ichani Invasion. Though Osen was as efficient as Lorlen, he lacked his predecessor’s warmth. And he had never forgiven her for learning black magic and joining Akkarin in exile.

Three other magicians waited patiently together, watching the rest and noting Sonea’s and Rothen’s approach. Sonea had grown to like Lord Peakin, the Head of Alchemists, in the last twenty years. He was open-minded and inventive, and as he’d grown older and settled into his role he’d revealed a wry sense of humour and compassion. Lady Vinara had survived the war and seemed determined to remain as Head of Healers for many years yet, despite advancing old age. Her hair was now completely white and her skin a mass of wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp and alert.

Seeing the Head of Warriors always roused a sour and uneasy feeling in Sonea. Lord Garrel had run the affairs of his discipline without scandal or major failure, and was always stiffly polite around her, but she could not forget that he had allowed and even encouraged his adopted novice, Regin, to torment her during their early years in the University. She might have been able to overlook that history if he wasn’t also linked with the Kyralian Houses’ clearing areas of the slums, involved in ruthless political manipulations, and rumoured to be profiting from dealings with Thieves.

How can I be judgemental, when I had a Thief in my rooms this morning? But Cery is different. At least, I hope he is. I hope he still has some principles – some lines he won’t cross. And I’m not involved in any of his business. I’m just a friend.

Near to the Heads of Disciplines stood three more magicians. Two were Heads of Studies, Lord Telano and Lord Erayk, and the other was Director Jerrik. The old University Director had barely changed. He was still the same grumpy, sour man, but he was now stooped and wrinkles had made his scowl permanent, even during one of his rare smiles. She had been called to his office more than a few times in recent years, Lorkin being the perpetrator as often as the victim of some novice prank that had gone too far. I’d wager he’s relieved Lorkin and his friends have graduated.

Rothen, as Head of Alchemic Studies, was clearly intending to join these three. It had always amused her how the Higher Magicians gravitated to those of the same rank. Yet as she caught sight of a figure striding toward them, wearing the same black robes as her, she felt no desire to do the same.

Black Magician Kallen.

After the Guild had elected new Higher Magicians to replace those that had been lost in the Ichani Invasion, they had long debated over how to tackle the issue of black magic... and her. They knew they must not lose the knowledge of it again, in case any Sachakans sought once more to overtake Kyralia, but they feared that anyone they allowed to have that knowledge might seek to take control of Kyralia themselves.

It had happened in the past, after all, when Tagin, the Mad Apprentice, had learned black magic and almost destroyed the Guild. The Guild of that time had felt they must ban black magic completely to prevent any individual abusing that power again.

Unfortunately, that had left the Guild and all the Allied Lands vulnerable to attack.

The current Guild’s solution had been to allow only two magicians to know black magic. One could prevent the other from seizing power. Each was charged with monitoring their fellow black magician, watching for any sign of evil ambitions. Servants were regularly questioned, their minds read, for any sign that the magician they served was strengthening himself, or herself.

Sonea had no choice but to agree. It was not as if she could unlearn black magic. She had been introduced to several of the candidates for the position of her watcher, and asked for her opinion. She hadn’t liked or disliked Kallen, whom she had not met before as he had been an Ambassador in Lan before the invasion. But the Higher Magicians had seen something in him that they liked, and she had soon discovered it was his unfaltering dedication to whatever purpose he was given.

Unfortunately, she was the focus of his purpose in the Guild now. While he was never rude, his scrutiny was unwavering and exhausting. It would have been flattering, if it weren’t so annoying – and completely necessary. It was a good decision. When I’m gone someone must replace me. Hopefully the Guild will choose well, but if it doesn’t then perhaps Kallen’s caution will save it.

Keeping her attention on Kallen, she watched him approach. He stared back at her, face impassive. She had not been as dedicated in watching Kallen as he had been at monitoring her. It was not so easy, when you had a son to raise and hospices to run. But she effected an air of attentive watchfulness whenever Kallen was around, hoping it would reassure the few magicians to whom it may have occurred that he needed monitoring as much as the former exiled slum girl who had risen to a powerful position too early and far beyond what she deserved.

A pause in the murmur of voices around her brought her attention back to Administrator Osen.

“Novice Director Narren is in Elyne and the King’s Advisers will not be attending,” he told them. “Since the rest of us are present, we may as well begin.”

The Higher Magicians followed him through the side entrance of the Guildhall and moved to their places. Seats had been built in steep tiers at the end of the room, the higher status positions at the top and the lesser at floor level. Sonea climbed to her place beside High Lord Balkan and watched as the doors at the far end were opened and the room filled with magicians. Two small groups gathered on either side of what was considered the front of the hall – the space before the Higher Magicians. One would be the petitioners, the other the opposition. The rest of the magicians moved to seats on either side of the hall.

Osen began the Hearing as soon as all were settled.

“I call on Lord Pendel, leader of the petitioners, to state their case.”

A handsome young man, whose father ran a large metalworking business, stepped forward.

“When allowances were made for men and women of the lower classes of Imardin to enter the Guild two decades ago, many wise and practical rules were set down,” Pendel began, reading from a piece of paper clutched in his hand. “But such an unexpected and necessarily rushed change to Guild practices included, not surprisingly, a few rules that have proven, in time, to be impractical.”

The young man’s voice was steady and clear, Sonea noted approvingly. He was a good choice as spokesman for the petitioners.

“One such rule states that novices and magicians must not associate with criminals or people of low repute,” Pendel continued. “While there have been cases where novices have deservedly been removed from the Guild and denied access to magic due to continued association with unsavoury individuals or groups in the city, there are many more cases where the interpretation of this rule has led to injustice. In the last twenty years the latter cases have shown that the general interpretation of ‘low repute’ includes anyone of common beginnings. This has unfairly kept fathers and mothers apart from their sons and daughters, causing unnecessary grief and resentment.”

Pendel paused to look around the room. “This rule paints the Guild as a hypocritical institution, as there have been no cases of higher-class magicians being punished for breaking this rule, despite them frequently being seen visiting gaming houses, brazier houses and brothels.”

He looked up at the Higher Magicians and smiled nervously.

“Despite this, we do not request that the higher-class magicians and novices be more closely watched and restricted. We only ask that the existing rule be abolished so that those of us born in the lower classes be able to visit our family and friends without penalty.” He bowed. “Thank you for hearing our petition.”

Osen nodded, then turned to the other small gathering of magicians standing to one side of the front.

“I call on Lord Regin, as speaker for the opposers, to come forward and respond.”

As a man emerged from the opposition, Sonea felt an old dislike stir. With it came memories of being taunted and tricked, of having her work being sabotaged, of being regarded as a thief after a stolen pen had been found in her possession, and of being the object of speculation when vicious rumours spread that her relationship with Rothen was more than just that of novice and teacher.

Those memories brought anger, but there were others that still made her shudder. Memories of being hunted through the corridors of the University, of being cornered by a gang of novices, of being tortured, humiliated and left magically and physically exhausted.

The leader of that gang, and mastermind of all her suffering in those early years at the University, had been Regin. Though she had challenged and beaten him in a fair fight in the Arena, though he had bravely risked his life during the Ichani Invasion, and though he had even apologised for all that he had done to her, she could not look at him without feeling an echo of the humiliation and fear she had once endured. And those emotions brought anger and dislike.

I ought to get over it, she thought. But I’m not sure I can. Just as I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling smug whenever one of the magicians from the Houses is introduced without his or her family name and title announced.

Along with the decision to accept entrants to the Guild from outside the Houses, it had been decided that family and House names would no longer be used during Guild ceremonies. All who became magicians were expected to risk their lives to defend the Allied Lands, so all should be shown the same level of respect. Since Imardians born outside the Houses had no family or House name, the habit of stating those names for those who did was abandoned completely.

If Regin felt belittled by the omission of his family and House name, he did not show any sign of it. He was not at all unsettled by the attention that turned to him either. He almost looked bored. He carried no notes to read from, but simply scanned the room once and then began to speak.

“Before considering if this rule should be changed or abolished, we ask that all remember why it was created. Not to prevent good people from visiting their family, or even to spoil a harmless evening’s entertainment, but to prevent magicians of any origin or standing being drawn into criminal acts or employment. The rule is a deterrent as much as it is a guideline for behaviour. To abolish it would be to lose a valuable motivation for magicians to resist those who seek to recruit or corrupt them.”

As Regin continued, Sonea regarded him thoughtfully. She remembered the young novice who had risked his life to bait an Ichani during the invasion. Since the Ichani Invasion he had been nothing but respectful around her, and occasionally he’d even spoken out in support of her.

So Rothen thinks Regin’s character has improved, she thought. I still wouldn’t trust Regin though, knowing what he was like as a novice. I’m sure, if he learned that I had met with a Thief who had snuck into the grounds of the Guild itself, he’d be the first to report me for breaking this rule.

“It is up to the Higher Magicians to interpret whether a character is criminal or of low repute, and we should leave it that way,” Regin said. “Instead of abolishing the rule, we should be more thorough and fair in investigating the activities of all novices and magicians.”

The annoying thing is, he has a point, she thought. Abolishing the rule will make it harder to stop magicians involving themselves in underworld plots. But the Guild is not applying the rule consistently enough to have much effect. It’s next to useless as a deterrent because the rich novices know it’s not going to be enforced in their case. If we get rid of it we’ll stop wasting time and attention on novices whose mothers are whores, and then, perhaps, we’ll start looking a bit harder at those magicians whose rich families have dealings with Thieves.

Regin finished and bowed. As he walked back to join the petition opposers, Administrator Osen stepped forward.

“This is a matter which will require much discussion and consideration,” he told the assembled magicians. “It is also not clear if the decision should be made by the Higher Magicians or by general vote. Therefore I am going to postpone a decision until I am convinced which course is best, and give all who wish to offer insight and information on the matter the opportunity to arrange a meeting with me.” He bowed. “I declare this Hearing over.”

It took Sonea several minutes to descend to the floor of the hall, as Lady Vinara decided to question her about the supplies the hospices were using. When she did finally extract herself she found Rothen standing nearby. As he stepped up to meet her, she felt her heart sink. He wore an expression she had not seen for a long time, but that she had learned to recognise instantly. The one he wore when Lorkin had got into some trouble.

“What has he done now?” she muttered, glancing around to make sure there was nobody close by to hear. The hall was all but empty now. Only Osen and his assistant remained.

“I just heard that Lord Dannyl has applied for the position of Guild Ambassador to Sachaka,” Rothen told her.

That’s all then. She felt relief flow through her. “That’s unexpected. Yet also not surprising. He’s been an Ambassador before. Has he finished his book, or abandoned it?”

Rothen shook his head. “Neither, I suspect. He’s probably going there in order to explore some new lead.”

“Of course. I wonder is he...” She stopped as she realised he was still wearing the expression of someone who had to deliver bad news. “What?”

Rothen grimaced. “Lorkin has volunteered to be his assistant.”

Sonea froze.

Lorkin.

In Sachaka.

Lorkin had volunteered to go to Sachaka.

She realised she had been gaping at him and closed her mouth. Her heart was pounding. She felt sick. Rothen took her arm and led her out of the Guildhall, then away from the crowds of magicians lingering to discuss the petition. She barely saw them.

Sachakans and Lorkin. They’ll kill him. No – they wouldn’t dare. But family are obliged to avenge deaths. Even the deaths of outcasts. And if not on the killer, then the offspring...

Determination filled her. The Sachakans were not going to harm her son. They weren’t, because she was not going to let Lorkin do anything so stupid and dangerous.

“Osen will never agree to it,” she found herself saying.

“Why wouldn’t he? He can’t refuse merely on the basis of parentage.”

“I’ll appeal to the Higher Magicians. They must know he will be in more danger than any other magician – and that means he’ll be a liability. Dannyl can’t spend all his time protecting Lorkin. And the Sachakans may refuse to deal with Dannyl once they know who his assistant’s father was.”

Rothen nodded. “All good points. But it could be that if you say nothing, Lorkin will have time to think about all the ways this could go badly, and change his mind. I suspect the harder you try to stop Lorkin, the more determined he’ll be to go.”

“I can’t take the risk that he won’t come to his senses.” She stared at him. “How would you feel, if you let him go and something happened to him?”

Rothen paused, then grimaced.

“All right. I guess we have some work to do then.”

She felt a wave of affection for him, and smiled.

“Thank you, Rothen.”

Dannyl looked around the dining room and sighed with appreciation. One advantage of relinquishing his room in the Guild and moving into a house in the Inner Circle had been the sudden possession of space. Though he now spent much of his income as a magician on rent, the indulgence of rooms was worth it. Not only did he have his own generous office, and this tastefully decorated dining room; he also had his own personal library and rooms for guests. Not that he had guests stay often – just the occasional scholar with an interest in Dannyl’s history. Tayend, on the other hand, had his Kyralian and Elyne friends stay over all the time.

What are Sachakan houses like? he wondered. I should find out before I leave. If I leave.

Administrator Osen had said he could not see any reason why Dannyl wouldn’t be given the position of Guild Ambassador to Sachaka, since he was well qualified and nobody else had applied for it.

I’ll miss this place, though. I’m sure there’ll be times I’ll wish I could grab a book from my library, or order my favourite meal from good old Yerak, or...

He looked up as footsteps sounded outside the room. There was a pause, then Tayend peered around the archway. His eyes narrowed.

“Who are you, and where is the real Lord Dannyl?”

Dannyl frowned and shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw your desk.” The scholar entered the room and stared at Dannyl with mock suspicion. “It’s tidy.”

“Ah.” Dannyl chuckled. “I’ll explain in a moment. Sit down. Yerak is waiting and I’m too hungry for explanations right now.”

As Tayend sat down, Dannyl sent a little magic toward the dinner gong, sending the ringer gently tapping on the disc.

“You went to the Guild today?” Tayend asked.

“Yes.”

“New books?”

“No, I had a meeting with Administrator Osen.”

“Really? What about?”

The door from the kitchens opened, saving Dannyl from answering. Servants filed in with steaming platters and bowls of food. Dannyl and Tayend filled their plates and began eating.

“What did you do today?” Dannyl asked, between mouthfuls.

The scholar shrugged, then related a story he’d been told by another expatriate Elyne that he’d visited that morning, about some Vindo roet smugglers who’d sampled their wares and been found delirious and naked beside a river.

“So what did Administrator Osen have to say?” Tayend asked when the plates had been cleared away.

Dannyl paused, then drew in a deep breath. I can’t put it off any longer. He looked at Tayend and made his expression serious.

“He said that there weren’t any other applicants for the position of Guild Ambassador to Sachaka, so it was very likely I’d be given the position.”

Tayend blinked, then his mouth fell open. “Ambassador?” he repeated. “Sachaka? You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

Looking away, Tayend’s eyes began to blaze with excitement. “I’ve never been to Sachaka! And there isn’t even a sea journey involved.”

Dannyl shook his head. “You’re not going, Tayend.”

“Not going?” Tayend turned to stare at him. “Of course I’m going!”

“I wish I could take you, but...” Dannyl spread his hands. “All visitors to Sachaka must be approved, either by the Guild or their king.”

“I’ll apply to my king, then.”

Dannyl shook his head again. “No, Tayend. I... I’d rather you didn’t. Firstly, it’s a dangerous country and while magicians and most traders return alive, nobody knows yet how Sachakans will react to a non-magician noble venturing into their land.”

“Then we’ll find out.”

“There’s also decorum to consider. As far as I’ve been able to discover, Sachakans are neither accepting of lads, nor in a habit of putting us to death. They consider us low status, however, and they often refuse to deal with people they consider too far below them in the social hierarchy. That’s not going to be helpful in my role, or in my search for historical records.”

“They won’t find out, if we’re discreet,” Tayend said. Then he frowned and turned to glare at Dannyl. “That’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it? More research!”

“Of course. Did you think I’d suddenly manifested a desire to be an Ambassador again, or live in Sachaka?”

Tayend rose and began to pace the room. “It makes sense now.” He stopped. “How long does the position go for?”

“Two years, but I can return early if necessary. And to visit home.”

Resuming his pacing, Tayend tapped his chin with one finger. Suddenly he scowled.

“Who is going to be your assistant?”

Dannyl smiled. “Lord Lorkin has expressed an interest.”

Tayend’s shoulders relaxed. “Well, that’s a relief. He won’t have seduced you into leaving me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Oh, Sonea’s son has quite a reputation among the ladies now – since that thing with that girl blew over. Probably highly exaggerated, as always. But there’s more than a few who’d like to find out for themselves.”

Dannyl felt a twinge of curiosity. “Really? So why haven’t they?”

“Apparently he’s choosy.”

Dannyl leaned back in his chair. “So will I have to keep an eye on him in Sachaka or not?”

A sly look stole over the scholar’s face. “I could watch over him. It would free you up to do your research.”

“No, Tayend.”

Anger and frustration crossed Tayend’s face, then he drew in a deep breath and let it out in a huff.

“You had better change your mind,” he said. “And you should also know that if you fail to change your mind I’ll...” He paused, then straightened his shoulders. “Then you might find I am no longer here, when you return to Kyralia in two years.”

Dannyl stared at his lover, suddenly unsure what to say. His heart had lurched at the threat, but something made him stay silent. Perhaps it was the fact that Tayend wasn’t trying to persuade him to stay. He only wanted the chance to go on another adventure.

The scholar gazed back at him, eyes wide. Then he shook his head, turned and strode out of the room.

Chapter 5
Preparations

Reaching out to touch the wall, Cery felt a wry affection. Once, the old outer city defences had been a symbol of the division between rich and poor – a barrier beyond which, after the Purge had driven all the homeless and the occupants of overcrowded safehouses out of the city and into the slums each winter, only Thieves and their friends could pass.

Now it was meaningless to Imardians except as a lingering reminder of the past. It formed part of the structure of one of Cery’s properties, this time a sprawling storehouse for importers to keep their wares, both legal and smuggled. There were still a few entrances to the underground network of passages known as the Thieves’ Road, but they were rarely used. He’d kept them only as possible escape routes, but these days a Thief using the Road was as likely to meet trouble as escape it.

Cery moved away from the wall and sat down. He had decided that the well-appointed apartment on the second floor of the storehouse was as good a place to settle as any. Returning to his old hideout was unthinkable. Even if it hadn’t contained painful memories, it clearly hadn’t been secure enough. Not that any of his other hideouts were better protected, but there was a chance, at least, that their location wasn’t known by his family’s killer.

But he had no intention of hiding away. As always, every time he ventured out into the city, whether in his own district or not, someone could attack him. Which made him wonder if he was wrong to assume he had been the killer’s true target.

No. Even though they waited until I was gone to kill my family, the true target was me. Selia and the boys had no enemies.

His chest constricted at the thought of them, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Somehow he took that suffocating grief and channelled it into something else: a deep, growing fury. If the killer or killers, or their employer, had intended to hurt Cery they had succeeded. And they were going to pay for it. Which meant it was more important to find out who had killed his family, and why, than how they’d managed to discover and break into his rooms.

He took a few long, deep breaths. Gol had suggested the Thief Hunter might have killed them, but Cery dismissed the idea. The legendary vigilante did not target the families of Thieves, or kill them to hurt Thieves. He only killed Thieves.

A faint chiming reached his ears in a pattern he recognised, so he rose and moved to a tube protruding from the wall, and placed his ear to it. The voice that echoed within was distorted, but recognisable. Cery moved around the room pulling levers and turning knobs until a section of wall swivelled open. Gol stepped inside.

“How did it go?” Cery asked, moving back to his chair. Gol took the seat opposite and rubbed his hands together.

“There are rumours about already. Don’t know if one of our lot let it slip or the knife’s been boasting.” Cery nodded. Some assassins liked to own up to their high-profile targets, as it demonstrated how clever they were. “I doubt Anyi would say anything,” Gol added.

“She might, if she had to. Did you do the usual rounds?”

Gol nodded.

“So how is business?”

Leaning back in the chair, Cery listened as his bodyguard and friend related where he’d been and who he’d spoken to since venturing out early that morning. It took an effort to keep his mind on the man’s words, but Cery forced himself to concentrate. To his relief, business in his district appeared to be continuing as it always did. Gol hadn’t found any evidence that someone was taking advantage of Cery’s distraction yet.

“So,” Gol said. “What are you going to do now?”

Cery shrugged. “Nothing. Obviously somebody wants me to react in some way. I’m not going to oblige them. I’ll continue business as usual.”

Gol frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. Cery managed a humourless smile.

“Oh, don’t think that I’m not fired about my family’s murder, Gol. I’ll have my revenge. But whoever broke into the hideout was clever and careful. Finding out who and why is going to take time.”

“Once we’ve got the knife we’ll find out who paid him,” Gol assured him.

“We’ll see. I’ve a hunch it will take more than that.”

Gol nodded, then frowned.

“Something else?” Cery asked.

The big man bit his lip, then sighed. “Well... you know how Neg thought that magic must have been used to break into your hideout?”

“Yes.” Cery frowned.

“Dern agrees with him. Said there was no sign of picking. That he’d put in some putty when he made the lock so he’d be able to tell.”

Dern was the lockmaker who had designed and installed the locking system on Cery’s hideout.

“Could it have been a very clever lock pick? Or even Dern himself?”

Gol shook his head. “He showed me a lever that would only turn if the lock was undone from the inside – inside the lock, that is – which could only be done with magic. I asked him why he bothered, and he said to protect himself. He won’t ever promise his locks are safe against magic, so he needs to prove that’s the cause if they’re ever broken into. I don’t know. It seems a bit far to go to. Could be he’s making it up to cover himself.”

Or maybe not. Cery felt his skin prickle. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps finding out how the killers had reached his family was important.

He would question Dern himself, and inspect the lock, to be sure. But if it proved to be true then he had one clue to his family’s killer. A clue that, though disturbing, was a start, at least.

“I need to have a chat with our lockmaker.”

Gol nodded. “I’ll arrange it now.”

Perler smiled and nodded at Lorkin as he entered the room. Lord Maron, however, frowned.

“Thank you for agreeing to brief us at such short notice,” Lord Dannyl said. He gestured to the tables and chairs, the only furniture in the small University room Osen had arranged for the meeting, and they all sat down.

Maron’s attention shifted from Lorkin to Dannyl, then he smiled. “You must be confident that the Higher Magicians will grant Lorkin his request to accompany you to Sachaka,” he said. “And that Black Magician Sonea’s protest will fail.”

Dannyl chuckled. “Not completely confident. I never underestimate his mother’s influence, and there may be factors that will sway the other Higher Magicians that none of us know about. But if we wait for the decision before briefing Lorkin then he may leave under-informed – and that would be a mistake.”

“As will a replacement, if they decide Lorkin cannot go.”

Dannyl nodded in agreement. “I would have brought a possible replacement, but there have been no other volunteers.”

“Well, if that happens I will find another assistant, brief him for you and send him when he is ready,” Maron offered.

“That would be most appreciated,” Dannyl said, nodding in gratitude.

Lorkin kept his expression neutral. It was a little annoying being discussed as if he wasn’t there. Still, he could easily have been left out of the meeting, and he was grateful to Dannyl for including him.

“Now, where to start?” Maron said, opening a satchel and pulling out several sheets of paper. “These are the notes I compiled last night, to add to those of my predecessors. You have all the reports of the past Guild Ambassadors?”

“Yes. And I have read them all. It makes for fascinating reading.”

Maron chuckled wryly. “Sachaka is very different to Kyralia. And to all the other Allied Lands. The obvious differences stem from the common use of black magic, and from slavery, but there are subtle ones as well. How their women are regarded for instance. Though men are very protective of the women in their family, they regard all other women with suspicion and fear. They have a strange belief that women band together when away from men and plot all sorts of mischief. Some even believe there is a secret organisation or cult that steals women away from their families and alters their minds with magic in order to convince their victims of their ideas.”

“Do you think it’s true?” Lorkin asked.

Maron shrugged. “Most likely an exaggeration. A scary story to stop women gathering together to gossip and swap ideas on how to manipulate their men.” He chuckled, then sighed and looked sad. “The few I met were meek and lonely. I came to miss the company of educated, confident women, though I suspect I’ll get over that once I catch up with my sister.” He waved a hand. “But I’m digressing. The important thing to know is that you must not speak to women unless invited to.”

As the former Ambassador continued, Lorkin began to make notes in an unused leather-bound notebook left over from his novice days. Maron moved from the subject of women to marriage, family life and inheritance to the complex alliances and conflicts between the main Sachakan families, and finally to the protocols to follow in regard to the king.

“There used to be a Sachakan emperor,” Dannyl pointed out. “Now they have a king. I’ve only been able to narrow down that change to the first few hundred years after the Sachakan War. Do you know when the change happened, and why the Sachakans did not return to calling their leaders ‘emperor’ after they began to rule themselves again?”

“I’m afraid I never thought to question anyone about it,” Maron admitted. “I found it was best not to refer too openly to the fact that the Guild once ruled Sachaka. There is much resentment of it, though...” He paused and frowned. “I suspect it has more to do with the wasteland than the changes the Guild made – or failed to make to their society.”

“Do they know how the wasteland was created?” Dannyl asked.

Maron shook his head. “If they do, they never mentioned it to me. You’ll have to ask those questions yourself. Just be careful how and when you do. From what I’ve seen, they bear grudges a very long time.”

Dannyl glanced at Lorkin. “Do you think it will be dangerous for Lorkin to enter Sachaka?”

Pausing at his note-taking, Lorkin looked up at the former Ambassador. His heart beat a little faster. His skin prickled.

Maron considered Lorkin. “Logically, no more than for any other young magician. I would not mention your father’s name too often, though,” he said to Lorkin. “They would respect him as a defender of Kyralia, but not for what happened before that. Yet at the same time they acknowledge that Dakova, the Ichani who Akkarin killed, was an outcast and a fool for enslaving a magician and foreigner, and deserved his fate. I do not think anyone but Davoka’s brother would feel obliged to seek revenge – and he died in the invasion.”

Lorkin nodded, feeling relief ease the tension in his body.

“Even so,” Dannyl said. “Should Lorkin expect the Sachakans, or their slaves, to be uncooperative?”

“Of course.” Maron smiled and looked at Perler, who grimaced. “They will be uncooperative at times no matter who you are. Aside from the general problems of status and hierarchy, the slaves take some getting used to. They may not be able to do something for you, but they won’t say so because that would be refusing an order. You have to learn to interpret what they say and do – there are signals and gestures you’ll pick up on eventually – and I’ll tell you how best to phrase an order.”

A complicated but surprisingly logical code of behaviour for dealing with slaves followed, and Lorkin was annoyed when, a while later, a knocking at the door interrupted them. Dannyl gestured at the door and it swung open. Lorkin felt his heart sink a little as he recognised the magician standing beyond.

Uh, oh. What’s Mother done now?

“Sorry for interrupting,” Lord Rothen said, his wrinkled face creasing into a smile. “Could I speak to Lord Lorkin for a moment?”

“Of course, Lord Rothen,” Dannyl said, smiling broadly. He looked at Lorkin, then nodded toward the old magician. “Go on.”

Lorkin suppressed a sigh and rose. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible,” he told the others, then walked to the doorway and stepped past Rothen into the corridor outside. As the door closed, Lorkin crossed his arms, steeling himself for the lecture that was bound to come.

Rothen, as always, looked both stern and amused. “Are you sure you want to go to Sachaka, Lorkin?” he asked quietly. “You’re not just doing it to spite your mother?”

“Yes,” Lorkin replied. “And no. I do want to go and I’m not trying to annoy Mother.”

The old magician nodded, his expression now thoughtful. “You are aware of the risks?”

“Of course.”

“So you admit there are risks.”

Ha. Outsmarted! Lorkin found himself having to resist a smile as a wave of affection for the old man swept over him. All the years of Lorkin’s life, Rothen had been there, looking after him when his mother’s duties called her away, helping him when he needed defending or support, lecturing and occasionally punishing him when he had done something foolish, or broken Guild rules.

This was different, and Rothen must know it. Lorkin wasn’t breaking any rules. He had only to convince his old friend and protector that he wasn’t doing anything foolish.

“Of course there are risks – there are risks to everything a magician does,” Lorkin replied, mimicking something Rothen liked to say to novices.

The old magician’s eyes narrowed. “But are they too great?”

“It’ll be up to the Higher Magicians to decide that,” Lorkin said.

“And you’ll accept whatever decision they make?”

“Of course.”

Rothen looked down, then when he met Lorkin’s eyes again his own were full of sympathy. “I understand that you want to do something with your life. You’ve certainly got a lot of expectation to live up to. You know Sonea and I have never wanted anything for you but a safe, happy life?”

Lorkin nodded.

“There will be other ways you can make your mark,” Rothen told him. “Ways that are as satisfying, with far less risk. You only need to be patient, and ready to grasp opportunities when they come.”

“And I will. I have every intention of surviving Sachaka and returning to do whatever else comes my way,” Lorkin said firmly. “But for now this is what I want to do.”

Rothen stared at Lorkin in silence, then shrugged and took a step away. “So long as you’re sure, and you’ve considered the full consequences... oh, and before I forget, your mother asked me to say she would like you to join her at dinner tonight.”

Lorkin swallowed a groan. “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

As if I have a choice, he mused. He had learned the hard way that refusing a dinner invitation was something his mother would not easily forgive. There was one missed dinner from five years ago – not entirely his fault, either – that she still managed to make him feel guilty about.

Rothen turned to go. Lorkin turned back to the door, then paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Will you be joining us, Rothen?”

The old man paused to look back, and smiled. “Oh, no. She’ll have you all to herself tonight.”

This time Lorkin did not manage to suppress a groan. As he sent magic out to turn the door handle, he heard Rothen chuckling as he walked away.

Sonea regarded the man sitting across the table from her and wondered, not for the first time that evening, why he had bothered coming to see her. Seeking to sway the vote of the Higher Magicians on the petition was normal and expected for both petitioners and opposition. But surely it was obvious how she would vote, when her origins and sympathies were clearly with the lower class. Why waste the time, when his efforts would be better spent persuading other Higher Magicians to take his side?

“The rule has clearly been applied unfairly, most often in the case of lower-class novices,” Regin conceded. “But the fact is, some do come from families involved in criminal activities.”

“I regularly heal people involved in criminal activities,” she told him. “And I know people in the city who earn money in less than legal ways. That does not make me a criminal. Neither does a magician become a criminal because a relative happens to be one. Surely it is enough that a magician – or novice – behaves as we wish them to.”

“If only we could trust that they would,” Regin replied. “But it is true of all novices and magicians, no matter their background and fortune, that those exposed through family or friends to dishonest people and business are more likely to succumb to the temptation of criminal involvement than those who are not.” He grimaced. “I believe this rule helps them, particularly when they are unable to help themselves. It can be an excuse to back out of a situation when under pressure from others.”

“Or it can drive them to rebel, when the rule is seen to be unfairly upheld. Or if it is inadvertently broken then they may reason that having broken one rule it will not matter so much if they break another. Then there are those who find what is most forbidden is the most exciting.”

“For which we need the deterrent effect of the rule.”

“Deterrent or, perversely, encouragement?” She sighed. “The weakness of this rule is that it is inconsistently applied – and I don’t believe that can be resolved.”

“I agree that is the weakness, but not that it cannot be resolved.” Regin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “The trouble is, things have changed. Crime has seeped up into the higher classes like damp rising through the walls. It is they we need the rule for, not the lower classes.”

Sonea raised her eyebrows. “Surely you don’t believe that the higher classes weren’t gambling and whoring in the past? I can tell you some stories—”

“No.” Regin opened his eyes and looked at her. “I’m not talking about the usual mischief. This is bigger. Nastier. And far more organised.”

Sonea opened her mouth to ask him to elaborate, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. She turned away and sent a little magic out to unlatch the door, and as it swung inward she felt her heart lift as Jonna entered the room, carrying a large platter laden with food.

Sonea’s aunt and servant looked from her to Regin, then bowed politely. “Lord Regin.” She set the platter down, then glanced at Sonea and took a step back.

“Don’t leave for my sake.” Regin rose and turned to face Sonea. “I will return another time.” He inclined his head. “Thank you for hearing me out, Black Magician Sonea.”

“Good night, Lord Regin,” she replied.

Jonna stepped aside to allow him past. As the door closed behind him, the woman raised an eyebrow.

“Did I interrupt?” she asked.

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter.”

As her aunt arranged the covered dishes on the table, Sonea sighed and looked around the room.

When she had first seen inside the rooms in the Magicians’ Quarters, she had been impressed by how luxurious they were, but hadn’t noticed anything unusual about their size. She hadn’t known that they were small compared to the houses most higher-class men and women lived in. Each suite contained two to four rooms, depending on the size of the magician’s family, and the rooms were of a modest size.

Aside from the occasional complaint, most magicians were willing to live in such small quarters in order to reside within the Guild. They had adapted to the restrictions. They did not eat at a dining table, but instead meals were served on a low table set before the guest room chairs. The only exceptions were the formal meals of the Guild, served at a long dining table in the Banquet Room within a purpose-built building.

Though there was another exception – the small dining room in the High Lord’s Residence.

A memory flashed through her mind of that room, and flavours she hadn’t tasted in years. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to Akkarin’s servant, Takan, the Sachakan ex-slave who had cooked such amazing meals. Nothing had been heard or seen of him since the invasion. She had always hoped he had survived.

Jonna sat down with a heavy sigh of relief. Sonea looked down at the cooling dishes on the table. It wasn’t an exotic meal, just the usual fare from the Guild kitchens. She frowned. It should have been Lorkin who had interrupted Regin.

“He’ll be here soon,” Jonna assured her, guessing the source of her worry. “He wouldn’t dare miss a meal with his mother.”

Sonea humphed. “He seems quite prepared to defy me and get himself killed in Sachaka. Why would a mere missed dinner bother him?”

“Because he’d have me to answer to as well,” Jonna replied.

Sonea met her aunt’s eyes and smiled. “You may as well go. I’ll only end up wearing your ears out.”

“My ears are robust enough. Besides, if he doesn’t come we can’t let all this food go to waste.”

“You know I’ll wait until well after it’s spoiled, so there’s no point the two of us staying hungry while we wait. Go. Ranek must be hungry.”

“He’s working late tonight and will eat over at the servants’ quarters.” Jonna rose and examined the bookshelves, then brought a rag out of her uniform and wiped a shelf.

There’s no budging her, Sonea thought. After coming to stay in the Guild in order to help Sonea through her pregnancy, birth and motherhood, Jonna and Ranek had settled in and found places as servants – Jonna as Sonea’s servant and Ranek among the robe-makers. Their two children had grown up here, had played with Lorkin and eventually gained well-paid places as servants in rich homes in the city. Jonna was well pleased with this. It was the best anyone of her class could hope for. Only by becoming a magician could someone born outside the Houses enter the country’s noble class.

A knock brought their attention to the door. Sonea drew in a deep breath, then sent a little magic toward the door latch. It clicked open and Lorkin stepped inside, looking contrite. She sighed with relief.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Mother. Jonna.” He nodded to them both. “The meeting didn’t finish until a few minutes ago.”

“Well, you’re just in time,” Jonna said, walking to the door. “Any longer and I was going to eat your meal for you.”

“Why don’t you stay and join us?” he asked, smiling hopefully.

She gave him a measured look. “And have the two of us telling you what a fool you are?”

He blinked, then grinned ruefully. “Good night, Jonna.”

She sniffed in amusement, before she slipped out of the door, pulling it closed behind her.

Sonea looked at him. He met her eyes briefly, and looked around the room.

“Is something different?” he asked.

“No.” She gestured to the other chair. “Sit down. Eat. No point letting the food get any colder.”

He nodded and they began to fill their plates with food. Sonea noted he ate with his usual enthusiasm. Or was he hurrying? Did he want this meal over with? To escape his overbearing mother and stop being reminded of things he wanted to ignore – like the risks in travelling to Sachaka?

She waited until the meal was over and he looked a bit more relaxed, before raising the subject he must know she’d invited him here in order to discuss.

“So,” she began. “Why Sachaka?”

He blinked and turned to meet her eyes.

“Because... because it’s where I want to go.”

“But why do you want to go there? Of all the places, it is the most dangerous – especially for you.”

“Lord Maron doesn’t think so. Nor does Lord Dannyl. At least, they don’t think it will be any more dangerous for me than for anyone else.”

Sonea looked at him closely. “That is only because they don’t believe something unless they see proof. The only way they can see proof that it is dangerous for you to enter Sachaka is to take you there and observe something bad happen to you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then you don’t have proof either.”

“Not that sort of proof.” She forced a smile. “I’d hardly be a responsible parent if I took you to Sachaka to test my belief that it is dangerous.”

“So how do you know it’s dangerous?”

“From what your father told me. From what Guild Ambassadors and traders have confirmed since. They all agree that Sachakans are bound by their code of honour to seek revenge for the death of a family member – even if they didn’t like that family member, and even if that family member was an outcast.”

“But the Guild Ambassadors looked into it. They said the family of Kariko and Dakova did not want revenge. The brothers had been a liability to them; it was clearly a relief to them that they had died.”

“They also said that the family had gained some admiration for the brother’s daring invasion, despite the fact they were outcasts and the invasion failed.” Sonea shrugged. “It is easier to feel gratitude and loyalty to someone after they are dead. You can’t discount the fact that the Ambassadors only spoke to some family members, not all. That if the head of the family expressed one view then others who disagreed would stay quiet.”

“But they wouldn’t act against the head of the family, either,” he pointed out.

“Not in any way that could be traced to them.”

Lorkin shook his head in frustration. “Nobody is going to slip poison into my food or cut my throat in my sleep. Even if I wasn’t able to use magic to treat one and shield against the other, nobody is going to risk breaking the peace between our countries.”

“Or else they’ll see you as the perfect excuse to spoil it.” Sonea leaned forward. “They might be offended that the Guild sent Akkarin’s son there. Your little sight-seeing trip might ruin everything the Guild has worked for since the invasion.”

His eyes widened, then his face hardened.

“It’s not a sight-seeing trip. I... I want to help Lord Dannyl. I think what he’s trying to do is... is... it could help us. By looking into the past we might find new knowledge – new magic – that could help us defend ourselves. Perhaps we won’t have to use black magic any more.”

For a moment Sonea could not speak. Surprise was quickly followed by a wave of guilt.

“You’re not on a quest to save me, or something, are you?” she asked, her voice unintentionally weak.

“No!” He shook his head. “If we found such magic it would help us all. It might even help the Sachakans. If they didn’t need black magic they might be less resistant to ending slavery.”

Sonea nodded. “It seems to me that anyone could go looking for this new magic. Lord Dannyl is already seeking it. Why do you have to go?”

Lorkin paused. “Lord Dannyl is only interested in filling in the gaps in history. I’m more interested in how that history – that knowledge – could be used now. And in the future.”

She felt a chill run down her spine. A quest for magical knowledge. Exactly what had spurred Akkarin on to explore the world, and eventually enter Sachaka. And that quest had ended very, very badly.

“Such a desire for knowledge led to your father becoming a slave,” she told him, “and he was lucky it only led to that, and not his death.”

A thoughtful look passed over Lorkin’s face, then he straightened and shook his head.

“But this is different. I’m not wandering, unwelcome and uninformed, into a hostile land. The Guild knows much more about Sachaka now. Sachakans know more about us.”

“The Guild knows only what the Sachakans have allowed us to know. There must be – will be – plenty that was kept from our Ambassadors. They can’t be completely sure you will be safe there.”

He nodded. “I won’t argue that there’s no risk. But it is up to the Higher Magicians to decide if the risk is higher for me.”

He has doubts, she thought. He isn’t turning a blind eye to the risks.

“And I’m sure you’ll make them consider every possible consequence,” he added. He looked up at her. “If I promise that I will come home the moment Lord Dannyl or I have the slightest suspicion of danger, will you withdraw your protest?”

She smiled wryly. “Of course not.”

He scowled.

“I am your mother,” she reminded him. “I’m supposed to stop you harming yourself.”

“I’m not a child any more. I’m twenty years old.”

“But you are still my son.” She met his gaze, holding it despite the anger in his eyes. “I know you will be angry at me if I succeed in preventing you going. I’d rather that than you were dead. I’d rather you joined the Lonmar cult and I never saw you again. At least I’d know you were alive and happy.” She paused. “You say you are not a child any more. Then ask yourself: are you doing this, even only partly, in order to defy your mother? How much of your wanting to go comes from wanting to make your mark as an adult? If you took those two desires away, would you want to go as much?”

Lorkin said nothing, but his face was tight with anger. Suddenly he stood up.

“You don’t understand. I finally find something worth doing and you... you have to try to spoil it. Why can’t you just wish me luck and be glad that I might achieve something with my life instead of sitting around getting drunk or taking roet?”

His face red, he strode to the door and left her room.

Leaving Sonea frozen, unable to do anything but stare at the door, her heart torn between love and pride, the determination to protect him and the fear that she might fail.

Chapter 6
The Hearing

There was quite a crowd outside the Guildhall, Dannyl saw as he entered the Great Hall. Thankfully Osen had decided the only magicians to attend the Hearing, held to decide whether to send Lorkin to Sachaka, would be the Higher Magicians, Lorkin, himself, and past Guild Ambassadors to Sachaka. Looking at the curious faces in the crowd, Dannyl wondered why these other magicians had bothered to come, when they wouldn’t be allowed inside. What did they hope to see? Did they want to know the decision as soon as possible after it was made? Did the outcome affect them in some way?

Whether Lorkin was allowed to go to Sachaka or not might indicate if other magicians had a chance of visiting the country. No, that can’t be it. There are always few volunteers for positions there. Dannyl noted a familiar face in the crowd. Regin. What has he to gain if Lorkin goes or stays? He frowned. Perhaps some satisfaction if Sonea’s protest is overruled. But Regin hasn’t shown any sign of animosity or disapproval toward her since they were novices. If he is harbouring any resentment, he’s hidden it well.

The rest of the crowd might simply want to see Sonea’s reaction if she failed to prevent her son going to Sachaka. Hearing that one of the Guild’s black magicians was in conflict with the former High Lord’s son must have generated plenty of gossip. Dannyl almost regretted slipping out of the habit of attending the Guild’s social evenings in the Night Room. He’d have already known what attracted the crowd today, and what they hoped and feared to witness.

As Dannyl neared the Guildhall doors, another magician emerged from a side entrance.

Black Magician Kallen. I wonder... is the crowd worried that Sonea will lose her temper and use black magic if she fails to stop Lorkin going to Sachaka?

If they truly believed she might, they ought to have made themselves scarce. Dannyl knew that he would never want to be close by if a black magician lost his or her temper. But they probably assumed Kallen could stop her, and the confrontation would be more entertaining than dangerous.

Moving into the Guildhall, Dannyl saw most of the Higher Magicians were in their places. Lorkin was already waiting to one side. He walked over to the young man, who greeted him with a wary smile.

“Nervous?”

Lorkin smiled wryly. “A little.”

“How did dinner with your mother go last night?”

“Not good.” Lorkin’s smile faded and he sighed. “I hate fighting with her. But I also hate always having to fight to do what I want to do.”

“Always?” Dannyl repeated.

Grimacing, Lorkin looked away. “Well, I suppose not always. Not often, really. Just now, when it matters. When I finally find something important to take part in.”

“Going to Sachaka really matters that much to you?” Dannyl asked, not hiding his surprise.

“Of course.” Lorkin looked up and searched Dannyl’s gaze. “Why do you think I want to go? Surely not just to defy my mother?”

“No.” Dannyl shrugged. “I thought you wanted to have an adventure. Get away from a boring, restrictive Guild.” He smiled. “I had no idea you truly thought the work was important.”

“I do,” Lorkin assured him. “Both maintaining good terms with Sachaka and researching magical history. Though with the latter I’m more interested in what we can do with what we find.”

Dannyl regarded Lorkin thoughtfully. He’d hoped the young magician would be useful at the least, and a good companion at best. Now he found himself both pleased to find he might have such a willing assistant in his research as well as in his ambassadorial duties, and a little worried that he might not easily leave the lesser of those duties to Lorkin when he wanted a little time to pursue his own interests.

A low murmur filled the hall and Dannyl looked around to see what had caused it. Sonea had entered the room, but had paused to talk to – of all people – Lord Regin. She looked puzzled, but nodded and turned away. Instead of climbing the stairs at the front of the hall to her usual place, she remained standing at the other side of the front to Dannyl and Lorkin, while Regin left.

She looked calm, even a little amused. The remaining Higher Magicians had arrived now. No doubt she had timed her arrival so that she would be one of the last, to avoid subjecting her son to the awkwardness of her presence as an adversary. Osen began his slow pace across the front of the hall that indicated he was ready to begin, and soon the magicians quietened.

“Unless there is a reason not to, I will begin the Hearing now,” Osen said. He paused, then nodded as no voice rose to stall him. “First I will outline our reasons for meeting today,” he began. “Lord Lorkin has volunteered for the position of assistant to the Guild Ambassador to Sachaka, recently granted to Lord Dannyl. Black Magician Sonea has lodged a protest against our acceptance of Lord Lorkin in this role.” He turned to Sonea. “For what reason do you protest?”

“That for Lorkin, as the son of the former High Lord Akkarin and myself, there will be the danger that the family of Kariko and Dakova, the latter of whom I killed during the Ichani Invasion and the former whom Akkarin killed many years earlier, will seek revenge for their deaths. Or the families of the other Ichani killed in the invasion will do so. Even if their families do not seek revenge, sending him there may be perceived as an insult. Either way his presence may hamper efforts at peace between our two countries.”

Osen turned to Lorkin and Dannyl. “And what do you, Lord Lorkin, say in reply to this?”

“I leave the judgement as to whether the risk is as great as M— Black Magician Sonea believes to the Higher Magicians, and will accept whatever decision they make,” Lorkin replied.

A faint smile of approval crossed Osen’s face. His gaze shifted to Lord Dannyl.

“And what do you say, Ambassador Dannyl?”

Dannyl shrugged. “I trust the observations and assessment given by the former Guild Ambassadors to Sachaka. They have told me they believe Lord Lorkin’s presence in Sachaka will be of no hindrance to my work and will present no danger to his life and wellbeing. His assistance is appreciated and welcome.”

“Then I call upon Lord Stanin and Lord Maron to provide their opinions on the matter.”

As the Administrator turned away, Dannyl could feel Sonea’s gaze on him. She’s not happy with me for encouraging Lorkin, but I know her too well to be intimidated by her stares. He looked up and met her gaze. A traitorous chill ran down his spine. It wasn’t that her expression held any hint of intent or accusation. It gave away nothing, yet was filled with an intensity that made him feel as if she were stripping back his skin and reading the thoughts beneath. He looked away. All right. Maybe her stares do intimidate me a little.

Even before she’d become a novice – long before she’d become a black magician – she’d made him a little nervous. It was reasonable considering that, when just an urchin of the slums, she’d managed to stab him in the leg. If she had been capable of that then, before she’d been trained to use her powers, it was no surprise he was intimidated by her now.

He did not want to start considering what she might do to him if something did happen to Lorkin in Sachaka, so he turned his attention to the former Ambassadors who were speaking now. The Higher Magicians were asking them questions, and the answers showed that, while they conceded that no Kyralian was ever perfectly safe in Sachaka, neither man thought Lorkin would be in any greater danger than any other magician. If Lorkin was at all worried, he should avoid speaking of his parentage. But because he would be in a subordinate role normally given to a slave, the Sachakans were not likely to pay much attention to him at all.

Next, a trader was called who favoured Sonea’s cautious position. He told of vendettas among the Sachakan families that had continued for decades, which he had observed during his yearly visits. The Higher Magicians questioned him closely as well.

Finally, Osen asked for all but the Higher Magicians, except for Sonea, to leave so that they might debate and come to a decision. Dannyl heard Lorkin sigh with relief when Sonea quickly turned and left, her expression suddenly distracted. As Dannyl stepped out into the crowded Great Hall, he looked for her, but she had disappeared.

The voices of the magicians milling outside the Guildhall quickly faded as Sonea hurried into the passages of the University, and were replaced by higher pitched ones as she neared the main corridor to the classrooms. The morning classes had ended and the novices were making their way to the Foodhall for the midday meal.

As she stepped out into the corridor, ready to weave her way through the novices, the voices abruptly faded to silence. She glanced about and realised all were looking at her. Those in the middle of the corridor hastily stepped out of her way and then, as one, the novices remembered their manners and bowed.

She resisted a smile, and hoped the little flush of embarrassment she felt didn’t show on her face. I know exactly what they’re thinking and feeling. A memory of a tall, frowning man in black robes striding down the University corridor, causing the same frozen moment of panic and a little fear among her fellow novices, flashed into her mind. When I look back, I wonder at how scared we were of Akkarin, as if we knew, somehow, that he was more powerful than he ought to be. The memory caused her chest to tighten, yet she held onto it. She treasured it for a moment, then let it fade.

Her feet took her on to the second-last classroom, which was empty but for one red-robed magician who had once made walking these corridors a torment for her.

“Lord Regin,” she said. “I don’t know how long I have. What did you need to tell me so urgently?”

He looked up at her and nodded politely.

“Thank you for coming, Black Magician Sonea,” he said. “I’ll get to the point. I’ve been told by someone whose word I trust that Pendel’s followers are planning a raid or ambush of some sort designed to expose the criminal connections of rich novices.”

Sonea sighed. “Fools. That won’t help their cause. I thought Pendel was smarter than that.”

“I’m not sure Pendel knows about it. The trouble is, if he doesn’t he might not be inclined to believe me if I tell him, and if he does I might inadvertently expose my informant.”

“You want me to talk to him?” Sonea guessed.

“Yes. But...” Regin frowned. “My informant was not sure of the timing. I fear it may be very soon. Today, perhaps. They said something about taking advantage of the Guild being distracted. I haven’t seen the ones I suspect are involved so far today.”

She looked at him. “I must return to the Hearing, Lord Regin.”

“Of course. But...” He grimaced. “If you can speak to him as soon as you are able to I... I think he would listen to you.”

“I will,” she told him. “But now I’d better return to the hall. Can’t keep Administrator Osen waiting.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, but his gaze remained anxious. Turning away, Sonea hurried out of the classroom back into the corridor, where the remaining novices froze and didn’t recover in time to bow until she was well past. Once she was out of sight she broke into a jog, slowing only when she turned from one passage into another in case she collided with someone. Finally, she made it out of the passages into the Great Hall. To her relief, Dannyl and Lorkin stood outside the Guildhall, still waiting to be called inside.

An awkward wait followed. She did not want to increase her son’s discomfort by joining him and Dannyl. Nor was it appropriate for her to talk to the former Ambassadors and the trader, who were chatting together. None of the crowd seemed inclined to approach her, and she saw nobody she knew who wouldn’t mind her company right now. Pendel was not among them. So she had to stand alone and wait.

After several long minutes the doors to the Guildhall finally opened. Relieved, Sonea watched as Osen gestured for Dannyl and Lorkin to enter. He looked up and nodded to her. For once his expression wasn’t cold and distant. He almost appeared sympathetic.

Uh, oh. Does this mean they overruled my protest?

Her stomach sank. Then her heart began to beat faster. She kept her expression as neutral as she could manage as she walked past the crowd into the hall. Once inside, she could not help scanning the faces of the Higher Magicians. Vinara’s wrinkled face seemed to express guilt. Peakin was frowning with what might be uncertainty, but Garrel’s looked smug. She felt her stomach sink even further.

Looking higher, she met Balkan’s gaze. His expression gave away nothing. But Kallen... Kallen looked annoyed. Hope filled her.

Then she looked at Rothen and her heart stopped beating. He knew she could read him too well these days, so he wasn’t even trying to hide anything. His eyes were full of apology, and he was shaking his head.

“Black Magician Sonea, the Higher Magicians have considered your protest carefully. They find there is no strong evidence that Lord Lorkin will be in grave danger if he enters Sachaka, so long as he remains in the protection of Lord Dannyl and the Guild House and does not flaunt his parentage needlessly. Do you accept this decision?”

She looked at Osen, drew in a deep breath, forced her face to show no sign of the turmoil growing inside her, and nodded.

“I do.”

“Then I declare this Hearing over.”

Disbelief and then jubilation filled Lorkin after Administrator Osen announced the Higher Magicians’ decision and he felt a sudden desire to let out a whoop. But it would not have been appropriate in the dignified surrounds of the Guildhall, and not kind to his mother.

As always, she showed little of her thoughts or feelings. How she managed that he could not guess. Long practice? He hoped that one day he would inherit the ability. Still, he saw small hints that others did not. The slight sag of her shoulders. The hesitation before she answered Osen’s final question. As she walked over to him, he saw how wide her pupils were. But wide with anger or fear?

“Don’t worry about Lorkin,” Dannyl said quietly to her. “I will make sure nothing happens to him. I promise you that.”

She looked at him and her eyes narrowed. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Dannyl actually winced. “I know.”

“And you,” she said, her eyes snapping to Lorkin. “You had better be careful. If some Sachakan murders you in your sleep I’ll hunt you down and make you admit you were wrong.” The smallest twitch of a smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “No getting murdered.”

The smile faded and she gazed at him in silence for a moment. Then she abruptly turned to Dannyl.

“When will you be leaving?” she asked.

“As soon as possible, I’m afraid,” he replied apologetically. “The Guild would rather someone had gone to Sachaka to learn from Lord Maron before taking on his duties, but Maron had to return to Kyralia in a hurry. Apparently if we leave the Guild House empty of an Ambassador too long they’ll find another use for it, and we’ll have to go live out in the country.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“How long is too long?”

“We don’t know. They’ve never told us.”

Sonea snorted quietly. “So they’re keeping you hanging on a string. Glad it’s you going, not me. Not that I could if I wanted to.” She turned to look at the Higher Magicians, who had nearly all descended from their seats and were making their way out of the room. Osen looked back at them.

“We’d better leave,” Dannyl said.

“Yes,” Sonea agreed. She frowned, her expression becoming distracted. “I have something rather urgent I need to attend to.” She glanced at them both, and managed a thin smile. “Don’t go leaving without saying goodbye, will you?”

Without waiting for a reply, she strode away toward the door. Dannyl and Lorkin followed, though at a slower pace. Lorkin watched as his mother disappeared through the Guildhall doorway.

“I have no intention of dying in Sachaka,” Lorkin said. “In fact, I’ll be keeping as low a profile as possible. After all, if the slightest hint of foolishness gets back here, she’ll come fetch me back.”

“Actually, she can’t,” Dannyl replied.

Lorkin turned to frown at the tall magician.

“Remember, she’s a black magician. She’s forbidden to leave the city. If she breaks that condition, she’ll be exiled from the Allied Lands.”

A small but sharp stab of fear went through Lorkin. So she can’t come and save me if I get in trouble. Well, I had better not get into trouble then. Or rather, I had better be ready to get myself out of it again. He fixed a bright smile on his face and turned to Dannyl.

“But I don’t need Mother. If anything happens, I know you’ll save me.”

Dannyl’s eyebrows rose. “Nice to know you have such confidence in me.”

“Oh, nothing of the sort,” Lorkin replied, grinning. “I just know you’re more scared of her than of the Sachakans.”

The tall magician shook his head and sighed. “What was I thinking? Of all the assistants I could have wound up with, why did I have to choose the one with the scary mother and troublemaking in his bloodlines? I am doomed.”

Chapter 7
A Journey Begins

As the carriage pulled up outside the front of the University, Sonea and Lorkin emerged from the building, followed by Rothen. A cluster of young male magicians lurking in the shelter of the entry hall waved and called out, and Lorkin turned to wave in reply. His wave turned into a beckoning gesture, and a servant hurried out, carrying a single, small chest.

Ah, good. The young man packs light, Dannyl thought.

Early autumn rain spattered against an invisible shield over their heads. As mother and son reached the carriage, Dannyl heard the sound of rain on the roof cease, and guessed that whichever of the magicians was holding the shield had expanded it to include the vehicle. He opened the door and climbed down to greet them.

“Ambassador Dannyl,” Sonea said, smiling politely up at him. “I hope your chests are watertight. This rain doesn’t look like it will ease off for some time.”

Dannyl glanced up at the two boxes strapped to the back of the carriage, on top of which the servant and driver were lashing Lorkin’s chest. “They’re new and untested, but the maker came well recommended.” He turned back to regard her. “I have no original documents in there. All copies. Wrapped in oilskin.”

She nodded. “Wise.” She turned to Lorkin, who was looking a little pale. “If you need anything, you know what to do.”

He flashed a quick smile in reply. “I’m sure I’ll be able to buy anything I’ve forgotten. The Sachakans might have a few barbaric customs, but it sounds like they don’t lack for luxuries or practicalities.”

They regarded each other silently for a long, awkward moment.

“Well, off you go then.” She waved to the carriage like she was shooing a child away, spoiling the impression of a young man venturing independently into the world. Dannyl suspected she would have liked to envelop her son in a hug, but knew it would embarrass him in front of his friends. He exchanged an amused and knowing look with Rothen. They watched Lorkin climb inside the carriage, clutching a leather bag to his chest.

“I’ll hold you to that promise, Dannyl,” Sonea said quietly.

The urge to smile disappeared. He turned back, ready to reassure her again, but there was a glint of amusement in her gaze. He straightened his back.

“And I mean to uphold it,” he said. “Though if he takes after his mother, I can’t be held completely responsible if he gets it into his head to do something foolish.”

From Rothen he heard a quiet snort of amusement. Sonea’s eyebrows rose and he expected her to protest, but instead she shrugged. “Well, don’t complain to me if he causes you trouble. You didn’t have to choose him as your assistant.”

Dannyl feigned worry. “Is he really that bad? I can still change my mind about taking him, can’t I?”

She raised an eyebrow and regarded him closely. “Don’t tempt me, Dannyl.” Then she drew in a deep breath and sighed. “No, he isn’t that bad. And I do wish you luck, Dannyl. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Rothen chuckled. “Goodbye again, old friend,” he said. Just as Dannyl had once farewelled Rothen many years before, on this spot, before heading off to Elyne and his first ambassadorial role. Where I met Tayend...

“Farewell, even older friend,” Dannyl retorted. Rothen laughed, the wrinkles on his face deepening. He looks so elderly these days, Dannyl thought. But then, so do I. He felt a pang of regret that he had not visited his old mentor and friend much these last few years. I’ll have to make up for that when I return.

“Off with you then.” Rothen made the same shooing motion that Sonea had. Dannyl chuckled and obeyed, climbing into the carriage to sit beside Lorkin. He turned to the young man.

“Ready?”

Lorkin nodded without hesitation.

“Driver. Time to depart,” Dannyl called.

A command rang out and the carriage jerked into motion. Dannyl looked out of the carriage window to see Sonea and Rothen watching. Both wore frowns, but as they saw him they smiled and waved, as did the young men huddled under the University entrance. He waved back, then the carriage turned toward the gates and they were no longer in sight.

She won’t stop worrying about him the entire time he is gone. Such is the role of a parent. He suppressed a sigh. Why this melancholy? I should be filled with excitement at the coming adventure. Glancing at Lorkin, he saw that the young man was gazing out of the other window. It’s not just me then. I guess all travel involves leaving somewhere, and that often involves a little sadness. Well, at least Lorkin had someone seeing him off.

He frowned as he thought back over the previous several days. Since their argument Tayend hadn’t spoken a word. Not even when Dannyl had told him he would be leaving the next day. Not a word of farewell. He hadn’t been present when Dannyl had loaded his chests onto the carriage and rode away.

Why does he have to be like this? It’s not as if he still wants to take part in the research. Tayend had shown less and less interest in the work over the years. He was more excited by court gossip.

Dannyl had told the silent scholar that if he judged Sachaka safe enough, he’d send a message and if Tayend was still keen to join him he could seek the Elyne king’s approval. But the scholar had glared at Dannyl and left the table, his dinner unfinished.

I’ve never seen him this angry. It’s unreasonable. My research won’t progress unless I go to Sachaka. Well, I hope it will progress. I might go there and find nothing.

But he would never know that if he didn’t try.

The carriage moved through the Inner Wall out into the North Quarter. Lorkin was still staring out of the window. His expression was withdrawn and thoughtful, which made him look more like his father.

Akkarin had always been brooding about something. It turned out he had a reason to be. Who’d have guessed the man so many magicians had been in awe of had once been a slave? Certainly nobody had suspected their High Lord knew black magic, and had been venturing out into the city to kill Sachakan spies.

Were there any Sachakan spies in the city now? He smiled. Of course there were. Just not the kind Akkarin had hunted – ex-slaves sent by their Ichani masters. No, the spies here now would be the old-fashioned kind, sent or hired by the rulers of other countries to keep an eye on their neighbours. And they wouldn’t bother with the poorer districts, instead looking for useful positions with access to the court and trade.

Dannyl looked out of the window. He watched as the neat stone houses of the North Quarter passed, then the carriage trundled through the Outer Wall and entered what had once been the slums.

It has changed so much, Dannyl thought. Where a shambles of makeshift building had been now neat brick houses stood. He knew there were still areas of the slums that were dirty and dangerous, but once the Purge had stopped it had quickly become apparent that the yearly forced exodus had hampered the expansion of the city as much as it had restricted access to it by the poor.

And the poor not only had access to the city, but could join the Guild as well – if they had strong enough magical ability. The wealth that came with such a privilege had lifted more than a few families out of poverty, though the influx of entrants from poor and servant classes had caused some troubles for the Guild.

Like this recent mess in which magicians and novices of the higher classes had been found in a roet and gambling house run by smugglers, but claimed to have been given directions to the place by the “lowies.” What was most disturbing was that this house had been found hidden down an alley in the Inner Circle, which had always been thought to be free of such bad establishments. And it hadn’t been all that far from Dannyl and Tayend’s home.

But that was someone else’s concern now. As the carriage moved past the last of the houses and out onto the North Road, Dannyl nodded to himself. His and Lorkin’s future lay ahead of them, in the ancient land of Sachaka.

The Good Company was one of the largest bolhouses in the south of the city. As Cery and Gol walked in, they were buffeted by the heat of bodies, roar of voices and rich, sweet scent of bol. Men outnumbered women, both standing at tables fixed to the floor. There were no chairs. Chairs did not last long. The brawls that broke out here were famous throughout the city, though by the time the stories reached Northside they’d been embellished well beyond physical possibilities.

Making his way through the crowd, Cery took in the atmosphere and noted the clientele without looking at anyone long enough to draw attention. Near the back of the huge room were doorways. These led downstairs to the basement, where a different sort of company was for hire.

Sitting on a bench near one of the doorways was a plump middle-aged woman in bright, overly fancy clothing.

“Why is it that house-mothers always look the same?” Gol murmured.

“Sly Lalli is tall and slim,” Cery pointed out. “Goody Sis is short and petite.”

“But the rest are rather similar. Big, busty and—”

“Quiet. She’s coming over.”

The woman had seen them watching her, hauled herself to her feet and was making her way toward them. “You looking for Aunty? She’s over there.” She pointed. “Hey Aunty!” she shouted.

They both turned to see a tall, elegant woman with long red hair swivel on her heel to regard them. At a gesture from the plump woman she smiled and strode forward.

“Here for some good company, are we?” she said. She looked at Gol, who was watching the other woman returning to her seat. “People always assume Martia runs the place,” she said. “But she’s here keeping an eye on her son, who works in the servery. Like to go downstairs?”

“Yes. I’m here to see an old friend,” Cery told her.

She smiled knowingly. “As are we all. Which old friend would that be?”

“Terrina.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “That one, eh? Well, no man asks for her who doesn’t already know what he’s getting. I’ll take you to her.”

She led them through the doorway down a short flight of stairs into a room beneath the bolhouse. It was as large as the room above, but was filled with rows of cubicles. Paper screens were attached to the sides, and most were closed to hide the interior – and from the sounds coming from all sides most of the cubicles were being used for the purpose they were built for.

Aunty led them to a cubicle near the centre of the room. The screens were open. Inside was a single chair. It was a generously sized chair, with a large cushioned seat and sturdy arms. All of the rooms were furnished thus. The women here did not want their customers to be so comfortable they’d fall asleep and prevent them servicing more customers. Cery turned to nod at Gol, who took up a position a few steps away, outside another empty room.

As Cery moved into the cubicle, Aunty closed the screens. Sitting down, he listened to the sounds nearby, then extended his focus beyond the moans and laughs in search of sounds that didn’t belong. The sound of breathing. Of footsteps. Of the rustle of cloth.

His nose caught a scent that brought a rush of memories, many years old. He smiled.

“Terrina,” he murmured, turning to the back of the little room.

A panel of the wall slid aside, revealing a woman with short hair and dark clothing. She looks just the same. Perhaps that little crease between her brows is a bit deeper. She was a little too lean and muscular to be called beautiful, but Cery had always found her athletic build attractive. As she recognised him, her eyebrows rose and she relaxed.

“Well, well. I haven’t seen you in a long time. What must it be? Five years?”

Cery shrugged. “I told you I was getting married.”

“So you did.” The assassin leaned against the side of the cubicle and tilted her head to one side, her dark eyes as inscrutable as always. “You also said you were the loyal type. I assumed you’d found another, shall we say, side interest.”

“You were never a side interest,” Cery told her. “Life is too complicated for more than one lover at a time.”

She smiled. “Sweet of you to say so. I can’t say the same in return – but you knew that.” Then her expression grew serious. Stepping inside, she pulled the panel closed. “You’re here for business, not pleasure.” It was not a question; it was a statement.

“You always did read me too easily,” he said.

“No, I just pretend to. Who do you need killed?” Her eyes flashed with eagerness and anticipation. “Anyone annoyed you lately?”

“Information.”

Her shoulders dropped with disappointment. “Why, why, why? All the time they want information.” She threw up her hands. “Or if they want the full deal they coward out of it before I can even get my knives sharp.” She shook her head, then looked at him hopefully. “Will the information lead to the full deal?”

She enjoys her work far too much, Cery thought. Always did. It was part of what was so exciting about her.

“It might, but then I’d rather do the job myself.”

Terrina’s lips formed a pout. “Typical.” Then she smiled and waved a hand. “But I can’t grudge you, if it’s that personal. So what do you need to know?”

Cery drew in a deep breath, bracing himself for the stab of pain that would come with what he was about to say.

“Who broke into my hideout and killed my wife and sons,” he said quietly, so none of the other patrons would hear. “If you don’t know for sure, then any gossip you’ve heard will do.”

She blinked and stared at him.

“Oh,” was all she said. She regarded him thoughtfully. The gossip of assassins rarely spread beyond their ranks. All accepted that it could be bought, for a high price, but if it led to another assassin losing trade or being killed the seller would be punished severely. “You know how much that will cost?”

“Of course... depending on if you have the information I need.”

She nodded, dropped into a crouch so she was at eye level, and stared at him earnestly. “Only for you, Cery. How long ago did it happen?”

“Nine days.”

She frowned and gazed into the distance. “I’ve heard nothing like that. Most assassins would have put it about by now. Getting into a Thief’s hideout is impressive. He’ll have tried to kill you there because it proves he’s clever. Tell me how he did it.”

He described the unbroken locks, the ambushed guards, but left out what the lockmaker had said about magic.

“I suppose they’d keep their mug shut if they were paid enough. It would cost. So the client is rich, or has saved up a long time. Either that or they did it themselves, or it was someone close to you who knew the way in – but I suppose you’ve looked into that. Or...” Her gaze snapped to him. “Or else it’s the Thief Hunter.”

Cery frowned. “But why would he wait until I went out and then kill my family?”

“Maybe he didn’t know you’d gone out. Maybe he didn’t know you had a wife and children. I didn’t tell anyone you were getting married, though that was ’cause I didn’t believe it. And if you hid them well enough...” She shrugged. “He got in, they saw him, he had to kill them ’cause they could tag him.”

“If only there was a way I could be sure.” Cery sighed.

“Every killer has their leavings. Signs. Habits. Skills. You can tag ’em from those, if you’ve got enough killings to compare.” She sighed and stood up. “I’d tell you the details about the Thief Hunter, except we’re keeping them to ourselves for now, in case one of us is the killer.”

Cery nodded. When Terrina said she would not give any more information, nothing could charm it out of her.

She looked at him and shook her head. “Sorry, I haven’t been much help. Can’t do anything but get you spooked about someone you already know about, and I can’t tell you anything useful about.” She looked away and frowned. “Can’t really charge you much for that.”

Cery opened his mouth to start bartering over the fee he’d offer her for the trouble of meeting with him, but she looked up suddenly.

“Oh, there’s one thing I can tell you, because nobody’s taking it seriously.”

“Yes?”

“People reckon the Thief Hunter uses magic.”

Cold rushed through Cery. He stared at her. “Why do they say that?”

“I thought it was because he was so good, people thought he must use magic. But I had a chat to a guard at a bolhouse once, who used to work for one of the Thieves that were done, and he says he saw a streak of light, and things flying through the air. Of course, everyone says it was the knock on the head making him see things, but... he was so sure of it, and not a man without a bit of good sense.”

“How interesting,” Cery said. It could be nothing but fancy and rumour. If I hadn’t seen for myself the lockmaker’s evidence I wouldn’t believe it. But added to other rumours of magic occurring where it should not, he was beginning to wonder how much truth there was in it.

If it was true, then either a Guild magician was getting involved in things he or she shouldn’t be, or there was a rogue magician in the city. Either way, they could have been involved in the murder of his family.

He suddenly thought of Skellin’s obvious desire to hire his own rogue magician. If this Thief Hunter is a rogue, he’ll have no problem getting close to Skellin. Hmm, should I warn Skellin? But surely he’s already heard of the rumours of magic... Ah! Maybe that’s why he asked about magic. He knew I’d had connections to the Guild in the past and was testing me to see if I still did. Which would mean he suspected I’d hired the Thief Hunter.

Then another possibility occurred to him.

Had a Thief come to this conclusion and sent an assassin to kill me, not realising they’d hired the very same magic-wielding assassin they fear so much? He frowned. At least I know it couldn’t have been Skellin, as he wouldn’t have arranged to meet with me and sent an assassin to kill me in my home at the same time.

He shook his head. The possibilities seemed endless. But here was this mention of magic again. It had been used to open the lock of his hideout, and it was believed to be used by the Thief Hunter. Coincidence? Perhaps. But it was the only clue he had, so he may as well pursue it.

Every time Sonea entered the Administrator’s office, memories wormed their way into her thoughts. Though Osen had rearranged the furniture and kept the room bright with globe lights, she could still remember how it had looked when Lorlen was alive. And she always wondered if he was aware there was an entrance to the secret passages of the University behind the panelling.

Lorlen didn’t know, so I doubt Osen does.

“Tell me how you came to be at the Nameless?” Osen asked of the two young magicians standing to the left of his desk.

All turned to look at Reater and Sherran. Sonea had been dismayed to realise the two magicians found at the house were Lorkin’s friends. The pair glanced at each other, then at the floor.

“We were given a slip of paper,” Reater said. “It gave directions to the best new playhouse in the city. There’d be free things for the first fifty customers.”

“And it was in the Inner Circle, so we assumed it was safe,” Sherran added.

“Where is this slip of paper now?” Osen asked.

One of the two older magicians standing to his right, Lord Vonel, stepped forward and handed over a tiny strip of white. Osen frowned at it as he read, then felt the thickness of the paper and turned it over to examine the back.

“Good quality. I will have the Alchemists who run the printing machines examine it and see if they can tell us the source.”

“Hold it up to the light,” Vonel suggested.

Osen did as he suggested and his eyes narrowed. “Is that part of the Guild’s mark?”

“I believe so.”

“Hmm.” Osen put the slip down, then looked up at Vonel again.

“So how did you learn of the Nameless?”

“A novice brought that to me,” Vonel replied, nodding toward the paper.

“And?”

“I asked Carrin to accompany me to the place, so that we could see what manner of establishment this ‘playhouse’ was, and if any members of the Guild had taken advantage of the offer.”

“And what did you find on arrival?”

“Gambling, drinking, roet braziers and women for hire,” Carrin replied. “Lord Reater here losing badly in some new game, Lord Sherran near comatose from inhaling roet smoke. Overall, these two plus twelve novices were engaged in sampling the full range of products on offer.”

Osen picked up a sheaf of paper. “Those listed here.”

“Yes.”

The Administrator scanned the list, then put it aside and looked up at Regin and Sonea.

“And what part did you take, Lord Regin and Black Magician Sonea?”

“I was informed by a concerned novice who had overheard that there may be some mischief taking place, though not of the specifics,” Regin replied. “Knowing that Black Magician Sonea has been taking an interest in the debate over the rule against magicians associating with criminals, I told her what I’d heard in the hopes she had clearer information. She did not.”

“But I went looking for it, when I was free to,” Sonea added. “And I was given an address. I sought permission to leave the Guild and investigate, but by the time it was given several novices and magicians had already been lured to the playhouse.”

“Why did you not arrange for somebody else to go?” Osen asked.

Sonea felt a flare of annoyance. Why shouldn’t she leave the grounds if all she was doing was trying to prevent a few novices and magicians falling into a trap? But plenty of magicians, Osen included, still thought she deserved having her movements restricted as punishment for learning black magic and defying the Guild all those years ago.

“We thought the fewer who knew of this place the better,” Regin replied. “Only yourself and Lord Vonel and Lord Carrin.”

She felt a wave of gratitude, then wry amusement that it was toward Regin, of all people.

Osen was now looking at the list of novices again. “It is too late for that. The Guard have shut down the playhouse, so it is no longer a temptation to anyone. All that remains is to decide the punishment.” He turned to Reater and Sherran, who cringed and looked everywhere except at the other magicians. “You, like all magicians, are supposed to be an example of restraint and appropriate behaviour to those still in their years of learning. You also have a duty to present the Guild as an honourable and trustworthy institution. But it is not long since your graduation, and we all carry some of the foolish tendencies of novices into our first years as magicians. I will give you both another chance to mend your ways.”

The two young men visibly sagged with relief. If they’d had the misfortune of coming from low-class backgrounds the result would have been very different, Sonea thought darkly.

“The novices...” Osen tapped the list. “Should be punished under the rules of the University. I will refer the matter to the University Administrator.”

Oh great, Sonea thought. Knowing my luck they’ll end up at the hospices, where all the vices that got them into trouble are available mere streets away. They’ll slip away as soon as they get a chance and I’ll be blamed for it.

“You acted as you were charged to,” Osen said, nodding to Vonel and Carrin. “I have sent a letter to the Guard thanking them for acting so quickly.” He looked at Regin. “In future we should all work together in order to prevent this sort of thing happening again. You may go.”

Turning away, Sonea walked to the door, opening it with a little magic, and stepped out into the corridor. Regin followed, and they both stopped outside the door and waited until the two young magicians appeared. Sonea moved forward to block their path. Reater and Sherran stared at her in dismay.

She smiled sympathetically. “So you only went there for the roet. What is it about roet, then? What’s so appealing about it that you’d put yourself in the hands of obvious criminals for it?”

Reater shrugged. “It makes you feel good. Not a care.”

Sonea nodded, but she had noticed that Sherran’s expression had shifted to one of longing while Reater only looked resigned. She leaned closer, keeping her voice to a murmur.

“Did Lorkin ever... ?”

Sherran looked at her, then hastily down at the floor again. “Once. He didn’t like it.”

Sonea straightened. He could be lying, afraid she would blame him if he answered otherwise. But then he’d have told me Lorkin had never tried it. I think this is the truth.

“You two are lucky Administrator Osen has chosen to be lenient on this. I wouldn’t test his willingness to be so again.”

They both nodded quickly. She gestured to indicate they could go, and they hurried away.

“Lorkin’s too smart to be caught up in roet-taking,” Regin murmured. “And the same good sense will keep him out of trouble in Sachaka.” He sighed. “I only wish my own daughters had half his maturity.”

She glanced at him, surprised and amused. Lorkin wasn’t any more mature than other young magician his age. But judging by the small amount of gossip she had heard about Regin’s daughters, they were very childish young women. “Still causing you trouble?”

He grimaced. “They take after their mother, though there’s enough cruelty in their rivalry to remind me of myself at their age.” He shook his head. “It’s bad enough looking back and regretting your youthful arrogance without having to then regret your offspring’s as well.”

Sonea chuckled, then started down the corridor. “I hope I never have to experience that for myself. But considering the sort of things I did in my youth, I’d say Lorkin has a long way to go before he makes as great a disgrace of himself as I did.”

Chapter 8
Signs

After two days in the carriage on increasingly bumpy roads, Lorkin felt as if his bones had been shaken into new and impractical arrangements. He kept having to Heal the aches of his body and soothe away headaches, but most of all he was bored. Hours of discomfort had left him too tired and grumpy for conversation, and he’d discovered that the jostling of the carriage on the roads made him ill if he tried to read.

Clearly, the excitement of travel wasn’t in the actual travelling part. It was more likely in the arriving part. Though he suspected by the time they got to Arvice he’d feel more relief than excitement.

Lord Dannyl – or Ambassador Dannyl as he must remember to call him now – endured the ride with a strange kind of happy resignation, which gave Lorkin some hope that it was all worthwhile. Or else this was nothing compared to the discomfort of sea travel, or the chafing of saddles, both which Dannyl had survived during his travels over twenty years before.

Lorkin knew that, over twenty years ago, Dannyl had been ordered by the former Administrator to retrace Akkarin’s journey in search of ancient magical knowledge. The stories Dannyl told were fascinating, and made Lorkin want to visit the Tomb of White Tears and the ruins of Armje himself.

But I am going where neither my father nor Dannyl have been before: the capital of Sachaka.

It would be a completely different Sachaka to the one his father had stumbled into. There would be no Ichani waiting to enslave him. If anything, from what Perler had described, the powerful men and women of the capital, especially the Ashaki patriarchs, would deign to notice an Ambassador’s assistant only reluctantly.

Still, he was reassured by the slight weight of the ring buried deep in the pocket of his robe. He’d found it in his chest that morning, in a small box buried deep among his belongings. There had been no note or explanation, but he recognised the plain gold band and the smooth red gemstone set within it. Had his mother slipped her blood gem ring into his chest secretly because she did not have permission to give it to him, or because she didn’t want to risk that he would refuse to take it?

He and Dannyl had begun each day’s journey by listing off the members of the most powerful Sachakan families several times, recalling key characteristics and alliances, correcting and helping each other memorise them. They had gone over what they knew of Sachakan society, and speculated where there were gaps in their knowledge. Lorkin noticed signs of nervousness and uncertainty in his companion. He felt almost an equal to the older magician, but he was sure that would change once they arrived and had to assume their roles.

The swaying of the carriage changed and Lorkin looked up. Only darkness lay beyond the windows, but the dull rapping of hoof on road had slowed. Dannyl sat up straighter and smiled.

“Either there’s an obstruction on the road or we’re about to be released from our cage for the night,” he murmured.

As the carriage came to a stop, it swayed gently on its springs, then stilled. Lorkin could see a building lit by the glow of lamplight outside the left window. The driver made an incomprehensible noise, which Dannyl somehow interpreted as a signal to get out. The magician opened the door and climbed outside.

Following, Lorkin breathed in fresh night air and felt his head start to clear. He looked around. They had arrived in a tiny village, just a few buildings on either side of the road. It probably existed only to service travellers. The largest, which they had pulled up beside, was a Stayhouse. A stocky man stood within the entrance, beckoning and bowing.

“Welcome, my lords, to Fergun’s Rest,” he said. “I am Fondin. My stable workers will look after your horses, if you drive them around the back. We have clean beds and good food, all served with a smile.”

There was a look of surprise and amusement on Dannyl’s face, but the magician said nothing and led the way inside. Lorkin wondered if it was from wondering if the man had meant to suggest his beds were served with a smile. Possibly he did. These roadside Stayhouses do have that sort of reputation.

Dannyl introduced them and asked for a meal to be served to them and the driver. The owner ushered them to a pair of seats inside a large guest room. Only one other group of visitors occupied the room. Traders, by the look of them. They were talking quietly and only cast a few curious glances at Lorkin and Dannyl.

It was not long before the meal arrived. A young woman arrived with a platter containing meats, savoury buns, well-sautéed vegetables and small, probably local fruit. She smiled politely at them both, but her gaze brightened as she looked at Lorkin. When she returned with two complimentary cups of bol she paused to give him a coy look as she handed him his. As she walked away, her hips swayed invitingly. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled as she saw him watching her.

“I wonder if Sonea expects me to protect your virtue while we are away from the Guild,” Dannyl said.

Lorkin chuckled and turned back to the other magician. Dannyl was filling his plate from the platter, and didn’t look up.

“Virtue?”

“Yes, well, I figure your virtue is your own to protect. But as an older and wiser companion I feel, at this moment, a strange urge to steer you away from temptation for the sake of your health and wallet.”

“Your concern is noted,” Lorkin said, smiling. “Should I offer the same service in return?”

Dannyl looked up at Lorkin, his expression guarded and serious for a moment. Then he smiled. “Of course. We shall look out for one another.” Then he gave a short, quiet laugh. “Though I suspect you may have a much easier task than I.”

The ground vibrated in a way that brought a rush of memories to Cery’s mind. Once, he would have passed this section of the Outer Wall via the city’s sewers below. It had been an unpleasant and sometimes dangerous route. The city guard had discovered the sewer being used as a route into the city and started flushing it at intervals. An arrangement made between the Thieves to post watchers, who would signal if a flush was starting, got around that problem. It had been a reliable system, and he had used it to take Sonea to see the Guild many years ago, before she had become a magician.

But now the sewers were divided up among the Thieves whose territory they crossed, and many of these were rivals. It cost a fortune to gain access to them, and the watchers were no longer reliable. It was rumoured that this was how the Thief who’d drowned had been killed. A watcher upstream had been murdered by the Thief Hunter, and not only had the Thief died but all the watchers downstream as well.

There’s not much reason to use the sewers now that the Purge has ended, Cery thought. It’s only useful if you have a powerful need to travel unseen.

Since he no longer used the Thieves’ Road to travel long distances either, Cery walked the streets of Imardin, in the daytime, like most of its citizens. It was safer, despite the risk of robbers or gangs. Gol’s bulk deterred the former, while Cery’s status still protected him from the latter.

I probably shouldn’t rely on it so much. Or on poor Gol to intimidate possible attackers. Some day, one or the other won’t work as a deterrent, and we’ll be in trouble. But unless I want to go everywhere in a crowd of guards, that’s a risk I have to take.

Passing through one of the new archways cut into the old wall, Cery started toward his own part of the former slums, Gol walking beside him.

“What did you make of Thim’s story, Gol?”

The big man scowled. “We heard nothing new. Nobody’s got any information, but plenty of the same old rumours.”

“Yes. But at least they are the same. Everyone thinks it’s the same person. Everyone has the same ideas about that person’s skills.”

“But everyone has a different reason for coming up with those ideas,” Gol pointed out.

“Yes. Things moving through the air that have no right to be. Strange scorch marks. Shadowy figures that can’t be stabbed. Flashing lights. Invisible walls. What do you believe, Gol?”

“That it’s always better to be over-careful than dead.”

Cery felt a flash of amusement. He stopped walking and turned to face his bodyguard. “So we act like the Thief Hunter is real and uses magic and has already had a go at me.”

Gol frowned and glanced around to see if anyone had heard Cery. “You heard what I said about being over-careful?” he asked, a touch of annoyance in his tone.

“Yes.” Cery sighed. “But what difference does it make if someone hears us? If my enemy is a magician I’m doomed.”

The big man’s frown deepened. “What about the Guild? They’d want to know if... about this. You could tell... your old friend.”

“I could. But unless I have something real to tell her, she won’t be able to do anything. We have to know for sure.”

“Then we’ve got to lay a trap.”

Cery stared at Gol in surprise, then shook his head. “And how do you think we’re going to keep that sort of prisoner in it?”

“Not to catch him.” Gol shrugged. “Just to confirm that’s what he is. To lure him somewhere and into using what he can use, with us watching. Better still if he doesn’t realise it was a trap.”

Starting to walk again, Cery considered the idea. It wasn’t a bad one. “Yes. Wouldn’t want him getting mad... and if he doesn’t realise he’s walked into a trap the first time then we could trap him again – with my friend around to see.”

“Now you’re catching up,” Gol said with an exaggerated sigh. “Sometimes you can be so slow to see—”

“Of course, I’d have to be the bait,” Cery said.

Gol’s teasing tone vanished. “No you won’t. Well, you will, but you don’t actually have to be there. The bait’ll be the rumour that you will be there.”

“It’ll have to be a pretty convincing rumour,” Cery told him.

“We’ll sort something out.”

They fell silent as they continued on their way. Cery found himself plotting out the details. So where can we lure the Thief Hunter to? It will have to be somewhere people would expect me to be. Terrina said he struck the hideout because it was more clever to kill me in my safest place. So I need to set myself up in a new hideout, and arrange for some people to blab about it and how much safer it is than my old one. It’ll have to have a few good spy holes, and an escape route or three. And it has to make the Thief Hunter use his powers in an obvious way.

For the first time in weeks Cery felt a tingle of excitement and anticipation ruffle the surface of the gloom and suffocating pain that had settled on him. Even if the trap didn’t lead to him avenging his family’s deaths, planning and setting it up would keep him from brooding over them. He needed to act, not sit around feeling sorry for himself, frustrated at the lack of clues to their killer.

The steep, winding mountain road leading toward the Pass reminded Dannyl of those that he and Tayend had travelled to the city of Armje so many years before. Which was not surprising, since the peaks here belonged to the same range dividing Sachaka from the Allied Lands. Here, too, the forest that edged the mountains thinned and gave way to stunted plants and rocky slopes.

The carriage travelled slowly as the horses hauled it steadily uphill. Lorkin had a now familiar look of boredom in his eyes, staring out of the window with a gloomy, resigned expression. They were both beyond conversation already, though it was not yet midday, and the silence only made the crawling pace more unbearable.

Then, without warning, the carriage abruptly turned and gained speed as the road levelled out. They began moving between two smooth walls of rock. Lorkin straightened, unlatched the window beside him and peered out.

“We’re here,” he said.

Dannyl felt excitement prickle his skin. He smiled with relief, and Lorkin grinned in reply. They sat in tense expectation, all attention on the movement of the carriage, the passing walls, and the sound of the hoof beats, until the driver called out and the vehicle slowed to a stop.

A face appeared at the window beside Lorkin. A man in red robes looked from Lorkin to Dannyl and nodded politely.

“Welcome to the Fort, Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin. I am Watcher Orton. Will you be staying for the night or continuing into Sachaka?”

“Unfortunately we cannot linger, as Administrator Osen is anxious to see us settled in Sachaka as quickly as possible,” Dannyl said.

The man smiled sympathetically. “Then I invite you to stretch your legs and look around as we change your horses for fresh ones.”

“We will gladly accept.”

Lorkin unlatched the door and then followed as Dannyl stepped out of the carriage. As soon as the young man set foot on the ground, he looked up and gave a little gasp.

“Ah, yes. It is an impressive structure,” Orton said, following Lorkin’s gaze.

Dannyl looked up and felt a shiver run up his spine. The face of the Fort towered over him, stretching from one side of the narrow ravine to the other. It was smooth and unblemished except where the shadows of huge cracks, filled in with more stone, showed where repairs had been made.

“Was that damage from the Ichani Invasion?” Lorkin asked.

“Yes, though it was worse inside,” Orton replied. He started forward, leading them into a cavernous opening. It took a few moments for Dannyl’s eyes to adjust, then he was able to make out tunnel walls stretching before them, lit by lamps. Slight variations in colour showed where sections had been filled with new stone. In some places there were gaps that went up several floors.

“Did we replace the traps that were originally here?” Dannyl asked.

“Some.” Orton shrugged. “Most were simple barriers, designed to delay and use up an attacker’s strength. We have installed more complex systems of defence to replace them. Tricks that might catch an invader if their guard was lowered. Illusions that will waste his power. But nothing that could hold off a group of powerful Sachakan black magicians for long, which is why we have spent as much time and energy creating means of escaping the Fort as well. Too many died in the Invasion who need not have, for lack of escape routes. Ah – here we have a memorial to those who gave up their lives bravely defending the Pass.”

Between two lamps a list of names had been carved into the wall. Dannyl felt a mix of disquiet and amusement as he caught a familiar name. From what I recall, Fergun was dragged out of some hiding place by the Sachakans. Hardly what I’d call bravely defending the Pass. But the rest... they died not understanding what they faced, because the Guild did not believe Akkarin’s warning. It could not comprehend the threat he described, having forgotten what black magic could make a magician capable of.

They stood in silence for a while, then the sound of hooves and the creak of wheels and springs echoed in the tunnel. Turning, Dannyl saw that the driver was leading a new set of horses, harnessed to the carriage, toward them.

“You must see the Fort from the Sachakan side,” Orton told him, continuing down the tunnel.

Dannyl and Lorkin followed. The sound of the carriage was loud in the confined space, so none of them spoke until they had emerged from the tunnel. Once again, high ravine walls rose on either side. They curved away in front of the Fort, giving no view of Sachaka. As Orton turned around and looked up, Lorkin and Dannyl followed suit. Another smooth wall stretched between the ravine walls, broken by many small windows. Two huge slabs of stone that had clearly once been a single square lay against the ravine wall to one side.

“That was once a door of sorts,” Orton told them. “It was dropped down to block the tunnel.” He shrugged. “I do wonder why the magicians who built the Fort, who were black magicians themselves, thought such things would slow down an invader.”

“Every little bit of power used by the enemy might be a life saved,” Lorkin said.

Orton looked at the young man and nodded. “Perhaps.” The carriage emerged from the tunnel and the driver pulled the horses to a stop beside them. Orton turned to Dannyl. “Fresh horses, plus feed and water for the three days it will take you to cross the wasteland, are on board. There are also supplies for yourself in the cabin, and I asked the cook to throw together something nicer for your next meal. Nothing fancy, but it might be the last Kyralian meal you have for a while.”

“Thank you, Watcher Orton.”

The man smiled. “My pleasure, Ambassador Dannyl.” He looked at Lorkin. “I hope you and Lord Lorkin have a safe journey, and that you will stop for a while on your return to Kyralia.”

Dannyl nodded. “We’ll do our best to keep any invaders from testing out those new defences.”

Orton chuckled and turned to the carriage. “I know you will.”

The carriage door swung open, no doubt by Orton’s magic. Dannyl climbed aboard and sat down, bracing himself against the sway of the vehicle as Lorkin eagerly followed him. They waved goodbye and called out thanks as the carriage rolled away and Orton moved out of sight.

Dannyl looked at Lorkin, who grinned back.

“I suspect Watcher Orton doesn’t get many visitors,” Lorkin said quietly.

“No. You look a lot more cheerful than you were this morning,” Dannyl remarked.

Lorkin’s grin widened. “We’re in Sachaka now.”

A shiver ran down Dannyl’s spine. He’s right. The moment we stepped out of the tunnel we were no longer in our own land. We’re in exotic Sachaka, the heart of the former Empire that once included Kyralia and Elyne. The land of black magicians. All so much more powerful than me...

This must be what it felt like to be a trader or diplomat who dealt with magicians in the Allied Lands, always aware how helpless they’d be in the face of magic, but relying on diplomacy and the threat of retaliation from their homeland to keep them safe from harm. Dannyl thought of the blood ring Administrator Osen had given him, made by Black Magician Kallen out of Osen’s blood so that Dannyl could contact him. For monthly reports, otherwise only to be used in emergencies. As if he could stop a black magician killing me from all the way—

Suddenly the wall of rock beside him was gone, and in its place was a great, pale expanse. Lorkin made a wordless exclamation, changed to the seat opposite Dannyl and moved close to the window to look out.

“So that’s the wasteland,” he breathed.

A treeless slope fell steeply from the edge of the road down to rocky, eroded hills below. Lapping around them like a frozen sea was a desert, dunes rippling across the land. The air was dry, Dannyl noticed suddenly, and tasted of dust.

“I guess it is,” he replied.

“It’s... bigger than I thought,” Lorkin said.

“We are taught that it was meant to be a barrier,” Dannyl said. “But the older records only comment that it might act as one. That suggests the wasteland wasn’t entirely deliberate. At least, not what the Guild had planned.”

“So nobody knows for sure why it was created, let alone how?”

“There are some records that state that those who made it intended to weaken Sachaka by ruining its most productive land. I’ve found letters in which magicians support the idea, and others who thought it an appalling idea. But the letters have the tone of people reacting to rumour and gossip, not an official decision.”

Lorkin grimaced. “It wouldn’t be the first time in history someone acted independently of the Guild.”

“No.” Dannyl wondered if Lorkin was referring to his parents. His tone had been wry.

They sat and stared at the wasteland for several minutes without speaking. Then Lorkin shook his head and sighed.

“The land has never recovered. Not after seven hundred years. Has anyone tried to restore it?”

Dannyl shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing nobody knows how it was done. If we ever face a proper war – rather than a bunch of outcasts – we’d be in some serious trouble.”

Looking out over the ruined land, Dannyl had to agree. “From all accounts, the Sachakans were furious at the devastation. If they’d known how to strike back, they would have. I don’t think they know any more than we do.”

Lorkin nodded. “It’s probably better that way.” He frowned and looked at Dannyl. “But if we do find anything...”

“We will have to keep it a secret. At least until we can pass on the information to the High Lord Balkan. It would be even more dangerous than the knowledge of black magic.”

Chapter 9
Seeking Truths

Like many low-born novices from the poorer parts of the city, Norrin was of small stature. But he looked even smaller walking between the two Warriors escorting him into the Guildhall. Sonea felt her heart twist in sympathy as he glanced up at the rows of magicians staring down at him on either side, turned white, then set his gaze on the floor.

It is cruel to drag him before the entire Guild, she thought. A Hearing before the Higher Magicians would have been intimidating and humiliating enough. But someone wanted to make an example of him.

By Guild rules, any novice who failed to attend the University or reside in the Grounds without permission to live elsewhere was considered a potential rogue, and must be brought before the assembled Guild to explain themselves, even if only the Higher Magicians were to judge their actions and decide on a punishment.

If he hadn’t been found right before a Meet day, he might have been spared this. But it is much easier to tack a Hearing onto the end of a Meet than arrange a separate one. I suspect if Osen had been faced with getting the whole Guild together just for this Hearing, he’d have bent the rules and kept it to the Higher Magicians.

The escorts stopped at the front, Norrin halting beside them and bowing to the Higher Magicians. Administrator Osen glanced back at the Higher Magicians – at Sonea. For a second their gazes locked, then he looked away.

Others had noted his glance, and she found herself the subject of speculative looks from High Lord Balkan, Lady Vinara and Director Jerrik. She resisted the urge to shrug to indicate she had no idea why Osen had chosen that moment to look at her, instead ignoring them and keeping her attention on the novice.

The Administrator approached Norrin, whose shoulders hunched, but he didn’t look up.

“Novice Norrin,” Osen said. “You have been absent from the Guild Grounds and University for two months. You have ignored requests that you return, forcing us to take you into custody. You know the law restricting a novice’s movements and where he or she may reside. Why have you broken it?”

Norrin’s shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath and let it out again. He straightened and looked up at the Administrator.

“I don’t want to be a magician,” he said. “I’d want to, if I didn’t want to look after my family more.” He stopped and looked down again. Sonea could not see Osen’s face, but his posture was all patient expectation.

“Your family?” he prompted.

Norrin looked around, then flushed. “My little brothers and sisters. Mother can’t look after them. She’s sick.”

“And nobody else can take on this responsibility?” Osen asked.

“No. My sister – next oldest after me – died last year. The rest are too young. I didn’t use magic once,” he added quickly. “I know I’m not supposed to if I’m not gonna be a magician.”

“If you do not wish to be a magician – if you wish to leave the Guild – you must have your powers blocked,” Osen told him.

The novice blinked, then looked up at the Administrator with such hope that Sonea felt a pain in her chest. “You can do that?” Norrin said in a barely audible voice. “Then I can go look after my family and nobody will mind?” He frowned. “It doesn’t cost a lot, does it?”

Osen said nothing, then shook his head. “It costs nothing, except in lost opportunities for yourself. Can’t you wait a few more years? Wouldn’t it be better for your family if you were a magician?”

Norrin’s face darkened. “No. I can’t see them. I can’t get money to them. I can’t make Mother’s... sickness go away. And the others’re too young to look after themselves.”

Osen then turned to the Higher Magicians. “I suggest we discuss this.”

Sonea nodded her agreement along with the others. The Administrator indicated that the escort should take the boy out of the hall. As soon as the doors closed, Lady Vinara sighed loudly and turned to face them.

“The boy’s mother is a whore. She is not sick, she is addicted to roet.”

“It is true,” University Director Jerrik said. “But he has not picked up the habits of his mother. He is a sensible young man, studious and well mannered, with strong powers. It would be a pity to lose him.”

“He is too young to know what he is giving up,” Lord Garrel added. “He will regret sacrificing magic for the sake of his family.”

“But he would regret it more if he sacrificed his family for magic,” Sonea could not help adding.

Faces turned toward her. She had not made a habit of participating in the debates of the Higher Magicians these last twenty years. At first, because she felt too young and inexperienced in Guild politics to contribute, later because it had become clear to her that her position among them had been bestowed not out of respect but out of a begrudging acknowledgement of her powers and assistance in defending the country.

Yet whenever I speak I seem to attract a lot more attention than is warranted.

“You have much in common with Norrin, Black Magician Sonea,” Osen began. “In having not wanted to join the Guild – though not due to family circumstances, of course,” he added. “What would you suggest we do to persuade him to stay?”

Sonea resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “He wants to visit and help his family. Grant him that and I’m sure he’d be delighted to remain with us.”

The Higher Magicians exchanged glances. She looked at Rothen. He grimaced, communicating in that one look how unlikely it was the Higher Magicians would agree to that.

“But that would result in Guild money going to a whore, and no doubt feed her addiction,” Garrel pointed out.

“Plenty more Guild money goes toward hiring the services of whores each night than would be required to keep Norrin’s family fed and accommodated for the year,” Sonea replied, then winced at the tartness in her voice.

The magicians paused again. And this, too, always seems to happen when I dare to speak, she mused. Lady Vinara had covered her mouth with a hand, she noticed.

“It will have to be up to Norrin to ensure that the money he gives his mother does not go toward roet,” Sonea told them in what she hoped was a more conciliatory tone. “It is clearly not his aim to kill his mother.” Then she had a flash of inspiration. “If he agrees to stay, send him to the hospices to work – as punishment if you must. I will arrange for his family to visit. That way he can see them and be seen to be disciplined for breaking the law.”

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 from 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.

I wish I could ask Sonea if any magicians or novices have gone missing. But I don’t want to risk meeting her again until I have proof there is a rogue in the city.

And in the meantime, he had best make sure he got that proof without getting himself killed.

Chapter 10
A New Challenge

The former Guild Ambassador to Sachaka had told Dannyl that no walls surrounded Arvice. No defensive walls, that was. There were plenty of boundary walls in Sachaka. Taller than a man, or so low they might be stepped over, and always rendered and painted white, they marked the boundaries of property. The only indication that he and Lorkin had reached the city was that high walls now lined the roadside instead of low ones, except in places where they had collapsed and not been repaired.

There have been a lot of ruins, he noted. Out in the wasteland, and then the occasional clusters of broken walls within estates that looked like they might once have been mansions. And now this... The carriage passed another collapsed wall and through the gap he could see the scorched and crumbling remains of a building. It’s as if the Sachakan War only happened a few years ago, and they haven’t had time yet to rebuild.

But if the creation of the wasteland had cut Sachaka’s food production by half, as Ashaki Tariko claimed, then perhaps the population had shrunk accordingly. Houses wouldn’t be rebuilt if there wasn’t anyone to live in them.

The war happened seven hundred years ago. Surely the houses abandoned then would be long gone. These ruins must be more recent. Perhaps the population is still slowly diminishing. Or maybe the owners are too poor to afford repairs or rebuilding.

The carriage neared a young woman, walking barefoot along the street and wearing the plain, belted wrap of a slave. She glanced up as the vehicle approached, then her eyes widened. Veering away, she hunched over and fixed her eyes on the ground as it passed.

Dannyl frowned, then leaned closer to the window so he could see ahead. More slaves populated the road in front of them. They, too, reacted with fear as the carriage approached. Some turned and ran in the other direction. Those near side streets took advantage of them. Others froze and shrank against the nearest wall.

Is this normal slave behaviour? Do they shrink away from all carriages, or is it because this is a Guild carriage? If the latter, why do they fear us? Have any of my or Lorkin’s predecessors given them reason to? Or do they fear Kyralians only because of past events?

The carriage turned into another street, then crossed a wider thoroughfare. Dannyl noticed that the slaves here were not as fearful, though they did give the carriage a wide berth. After it rounded a few more corners it abruptly turned between two gates into a courtyard, and stopped. A glint of gold caught his eye, and he saw that a plaque on the side of the house stated: Guild House of Arvice.

Dannyl turned to regard Lorkin. The young man was sitting straight, his eyes bright with excitement. He looked at Dannyl, then waved at the carriage door.

“Ambassadors first,” he said, grinning.

Moving across the cabin, Dannyl opened the door and climbed down. A man was lying on the ground nearby. For a moment Dannyl felt a flash of concern, worried that the stranger had collapsed. Then he remembered.

“I am Guild Ambassador Dannyl,” he said. “This is Lord Lorkin, my assistant. You may rise.”

The man climbed to his feet, keeping his gaze on the ground. “Welcome, Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin.”

“Thank you,” Dannyl replied automatically, remembering too late that such social habits were seen as amusing and foolish to the Sachakans. “Take us inside.”

The man gestured to a nearby door, then turned and walked through it. He glanced back to ensure they were following as he led the way down a corridor. Just as in Ashaki Tariko’s house, it led to a large room – the Master’s Room. But this room was abuzz with voices. Dannyl was surprised to find at least twenty men standing there, all in the highly decorated short jackets that Sachakan men wore as traditional formal attire. All turned to regard him as he entered, and the voices immediately fell silent.

“Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin,” the slave announced.

One of the men stepped forward, smiling. He had the typical broad-shouldered stature of his race, but there was a little grey in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave his face a cheerful expression. His jacket was a dark blue with gold stitchery, and there was an ornate knife in his belt.

“Welcome to Arvice, Ambassador Dannyl, Lord Lorkin,” he said, glancing at Lorkin briefly before turning his attention back to Dannyl. “I am Ashaki Achati. My friends and I have been waiting to greet you, and give you your first taste of Sachakan hospitality.”

Ashaki Achati. Dannyl felt a small rush of excitement as he recalled the name. A major political player, and friend to the Sachakan king.

“Thank you,” Dannyl replied. “I...” He looked at Lorkin and smiled. “We are flattered and honoured.”

Ashaki Achati’s smile widened. “Let me introduce you both to everyone.”

Voices filled the room again as Achati called over the rest of the men, individually or in pairs, to meet Dannyl. One portly man was introduced as the king’s Master of Trade; a short, stooped man turned out to be the Master of Law. The Master of War seemed a strange choice – thin for a Sachakan, and overly flippant in manner for such a weighty and serious role. The Master of Records’ friendliness seemed forced, but Dannyl picked up no dislike in his manner, just a hint of boredom.

“So do you have any plans to entertain yourself, when not buried in ambassadorial duties?” a man named Ashaki Vikato asked after they were introduced.

“I find the past fascinating,” Dannyl replied. “I would like to know more about Sachaka’s history.”

“Ah! Well you should talk to Kirota.” The man waved toward the Master of War. “He is always talking about some obscure bit of the past, or reading old books. What is a chore to most Sachakan boys is a pleasant pastime to him.”

Dannyl looked across at the thin man, who was grinning at something he was being told.

“Not the Master of Records?”

“No,” Ashaki Achati said, shaking his head. “Not unless you’re having trouble sleeping.”

Ashaki Vikato chuckled. “Old Richaki is more interested in recording the present than dredging up the past. Master Kirota!”

The thin man turned and then smiled as Vikato beckoned. He wove his way across the room.

“Yes, Ashaki Vikato?”

“Ambassador Dannyl has an interest in history. How would you suggest he go about satisfying it while he is in Arvice?”

Kirota’s eyebrows rose. “You do?” Then he frowned as he considered. “It isn’t easy to gain access to records or libraries,” he warned. “All our libraries are privately owned, and you have to get permission from Master Richaki to view the palace records.”

Achati nodded. “I’m on good terms with most of the library owners in Arvice.” He looked at Dannyl. “If you’d like, I can introduce you and see if we can gain access to some of them.”

“I would be most grateful if you did,” Dannyl replied.

Achati smiled. “It’ll be easy. They’ll all want to meet the latest Guild Ambassador. Only trouble you might have is getting them to leave you alone long enough to read anything. Is there any aspect of history that you are most interested in?”

“The older, the better. And...” Dannyl paused to consider how to phrase what he wanted to say. “While I’d like to fill the gaps in my knowledge of Sachakan history, I’m also interested in anything that might fill some of the gaps in Kryalian history as well.”

“You have gaps?” Kirota’s eyebrows rose again. “But then, don’t we all?” He smiled, the lines on his thin face deepening and making Dannyl realise the man was older than he’d first guessed. “Perhaps you can help me fill some of the gaps in ours as well, Ambassador Dannyl.”

Dannyl nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

As Achati looked around the room, perhaps to check if he’d neglected to introduce anyone yet, Dannyl realised that, despite being surrounded by black magicians, he felt perfectly at ease. These were men of power and influence, and he’d had plenty of dealings with such men in the past. Perhaps this role should not be much harder than it was in Elyne. Not that that one was easy. And it seems black magic is no obstacle to having scholarly interests, too. He felt a tingle of anticipation, thinking of the records he might stumble upon in these private libraries Achati had mentioned. Then he felt a twinge of guilt and sadness. It would have been good to share the discoveries with Tayend. But I’m not sure he’d be that interested now. And for all that these men seem friendly, he is safer back in Kyralia.

The crowd outside the Northside Hospice was smaller than usual. Pale faces turned toward the carriage, eyes bright with hope but expressions guarded. As the vehicle turned and passed between the gates, Sonea sighed.

When the hospices had first opened, hordes of sick had gathered outside the doors, along with those hopeful of seeing the legendary slum magician, former exile and defender of Kyralia. Those not intimidated by her black robes had surrounded her, begging or babbling, making it difficult to get inside the hospice and do the work she needed to do. She could not bring herself to push them away with magic. Other Healers had experienced similar problems, as the sick not yet admitted to the hospice, or their families, begged and pleaded for help.

So enclosed carriageways had been built beside the hospices, with guards to man the gates, and a side entrance. They allowed Healers to arrive and get from carriage to hospice without being harassed.

Sonea waited until the guards called out to indicate all was clear, then climbed out of the carriage. As she turned to smile in thanks, the two guards bowed. She heard the side door to the hospice open.

“... and it’s about time – oh!”

Sonea turned to see Healer Ollia staring at her in horror.

“Sorry, er, Black Magician Sonea. I was... we were...”

“It’s I who should be apologising.” Sonea smiled. “I’m late. Or rather, Healer Draven is. His mother has fallen ill, suddenly, so I’m stepping in for him.” She stepped aside and nodded to the carriage. “Go on. You must be tired.”

“Um. Thank you.” Flushed, Ollia hurried past and climbed into the vehicle.

Turning away, Sonea entered the hospice. A large room full of supplies with a central area of seating for exhausted Healers and helpers formed a sanctuary of privacy between the carriageway entrance and the public rooms. A young woman in green robes was sitting in one of the chairs, the edge of her mouth quirked up in a wry smile.

“Good evening, Black Magician Sonea,” Nikea said.

“Healer Nikea,” Sonea replied. She liked Nikea. The young Healer had first volunteered to help in the hospice not long after joining the Guild, and discovered a love of both healing and helping people. Her parents were servants for a family of one of the less powerful Houses. “Looks quiet here tonight.”

“More or less.” Nikea shrugged. “Did I hear right? You’re replacing Healer Draven?”

“Yes.”

Nikea rose. “Then I had better let Adrea know you’re here.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Sonea followed her through the door to the main part of the hospice, locking it behind her with magic. As they walked down the corridor, she listened to the sounds escaping the treatment rooms. Rasping breathing told her there was a patient with respiratory problems in one room, and groans from another doorway told of a painful condition. All rooms, as always, were occupied – some with both patient and the two family members that were allowed to stay with and help tend to them.

There were too few Healers willing to work in the hospices to treat the multitudes of sick visiting them, and between them they did not have enough power to meet the demand. But if all of the Healers of the Guild were made to work at them daily there still would not be enough. Sonea had known she would have to run these places with a limited supply of Healing power.

So they treated Healing power like a rare and powerful medicine. Only those people who would not survive without it were Healed with magic. The rest were treated with medicine and surgery.

This had revealed that the Guild’s Healers did not know as much about non-magical healing as they’d thought they did. Those Healers who had joined Sonea in treating the poor had begun to expand and develop fields of knowledge that had been long neglected. Some Healers still regarded non-magical healing as primitive and unnecessary, but Lady Vinara, Head of Healers, was not inclined to agree. She now sent novices favouring the Healing discipline to Sonea to learn both how to apply non-magical healing, and why it was still needed.

Turning into the main corridor, Nikea led Sonea to the front room of the hospice. A short, plump woman with grey in her hair paced the room, watching the people seated on benches around the walls with her arms crossed and a stern expression. Sonea suppressed a smile.

Adrea. One of our first non-magician helpers.

When the first hospice opened, Healers had spent as much of their time talking with everyone who entered to find out who was sick and who wasn’t as they did treating people. They had to decide how serious the illness or injury was, and pass the patient on to a Healer with the appropriate experience and knowledge. Soon Healers were complaining that they spend their time there herding people, not Healing them. They tried allocating the task instead to novices, but new novices were either too young or inexperienced to deal with distressed patients and their families, and older ones needed to learn something more than how to diagnose illnesses and ferry people about.

It had been Lady Vinara’s idea to circulate a request among the Houses for volunteers to help in the hospices. Sonea had expected no response, so she was surprised when three women had appeared at the door a few days later. She’d suddenly had to come up with useful tasks that weren’t too menial for women of the higher classes, but would not cause too many problems or damage if done badly.

Only one of those women had returned to the hospice after the first day, but after a few weeks Adrea had not only proven herself capable of being helpful but soon persuaded three other women – friends and relatives – to try out being “hospice helpers.”

A few weeks later more helpers began to arrive. Gossip about the original helpers had spread, and general opinion was that they should be admired for their noble sacrifice of time and willingness to risk personal safety for the benefit of the city. Suddenly it was fashionable to be a hospice helper and there was a flood of volunteers.

The reality of the work soon dampened the enthusiasm of fad-followers and the number of new volunteers settled to a steady rate. The helpers that remained not only continued to work at the hospices but organised themselves into shifts and held meetings to discuss new and better ways that non-magicians could help the poor and the Healers.

“Adrea,” Nikea called.

The woman turned and, seeing Sonea, bowed deeply. “Black Magician Sonea,” she said.

“Adrea,” Sonea replied. “I’m taking Healer Draven’s place tonight. Give me a few minutes, then send the first one in.”

The woman nodded. Turning back to face the corridor, Sonea took a step toward the Examination Room, then stopped and looked at Nikea.

“Nothing needs any special attention out here?” she asked, gesturing down the corridor to the patient rooms.

Nikea shook her head. “Nothing we can’t handle. There are three of us working the rooms. All the patients have been fed and half of them are probably asleep already. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

Sonea nodded. She moved to the first door to the left and opened it. The room inside was large enough for two chairs, a locked cupboard and a narrow bed along one wall. It was dark, so she created a globe light and sent it hovering near the centre of the ceiling.

Sitting down on one of the chairs, she took a deep breath and readied herself for the first of the patients. Adrea would ring a gong if anyone arrived who needed immediate treatment. The rest came to the Examination Room, where a Healer examined and questioned them before either Healing them with magic or treating them with medicine or minor surgery. If major surgery was needed but not urgent they arranged for the patient to return another day.

A knock came from the door. Sonea drew a little magic and sent it out to the handle, turning and tugging it inward. The man standing beyond looked surprised as he saw nobody standing behind the door, despite having visiting the hospice several times before.

“Stoneworker Berrin,” Sonea said. “Come in.”

He looked relieved to see her. He bowed, closed the door, moved to the chair and sat down.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” he said.

She nodded. “How are you?”

Rubbing his hands together, he paused to think before answering.

“I don’t think it worked,” he finally said.

Sonea regarded him thoughtfully. He had first come to the hospice nearly a year before, refusing to say what was wrong with him. She’d assumed something embarrassing and private, but what he’d revealed, slowly and reluctantly, was an addiction to roet.

It had taken some courage to admit it, she knew. He was the sort of man who worked hard and prided himself on doing “honest” work. But when his wife had died bearing their first child, which hadn’t survived, he had been so wrapped up in grief and guilt that he’d tried the wares of a rot-seller with a persuasive tongue. By the time the pain had receded enough that he could resume his former work he found he could not give up the drug.

At first she had encouraged him to reduce the amount he took and endure the aches, cravings and bad moods that came over him. He had done well, but it had exhausted him. The desire for the numbing, freeing sensation of roet did not diminish, however. Eventually, after several months, Sonea took pity on him and decided to see if magic could speed the process.

All Healers had agreed that roet addiction was not an illness, so to use magic to cure it was a waste of a precious resource. Sonea had agreed, but Berrin was a good man who had been taken advantage of when most vulnerable. She had Healed him in secret.

“Why do you think it didn’t work?” she asked him.

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 without 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.”

“I guess I had better go buy you some books on magic,” Gol said, putting his glass down.

“You won’t find them that easily. If you did there’d be no point in us using them as bait.”

Gol smiled. “Oh, I never said they’d be the real thing. We’ll get some fakes made.”

“That will take time. Maybe all we need is the rumour that there are books somewhere.”

“Do you think the Thief Hunter would risk exposure as a magician for the sake of the rumour of books on magic? He’ll only investigate if he knows someone has laid eyes on them.”

“All right, get some fakes made.” Cery grimaced. “Just... don’t let them take as long as real book-copiers do, or I may as well stay here and wait for the Thief Hunter to come find me.”

Dannyl surrendered his plate to the slave and resisted the urge to pat his stomach contentedly. He was beginning to like the strange manner in which meals were served in Sachaka. By having guests select food from the offered plates it allowed them to eat as much or as little as they liked. At first he had felt obliged to try every dish, but he noticed that other guests did not – if anything they affected an air of fussiness which the host did not appear to mind.

Nobody ever commented on the food, he’d noted. Which was a relief, because some of the dishes had been laced with spices so hot, or else unexpectedly bitter or salty, that he’d not been able to finish what he’d taken. Sachakans did not appear to serve dessert, though if receiving a visitor during the day they made sure there were dishes of nuts, sweet fruit or confections laid out on tables.

Dannyl’s host for the night was a portly Sachakan named Ashaki Itoki. He knew that the man was one of the most powerful in Sachaka, and cousin to the Sachakan king. It appeared Ashaki Achati, the man who had greeted Dannyl and Lorkin when they had arrived at the Guild House, had been given the task of ensuring Dannyl was introduced to the right people in the right order. Though he had not told Dannyl this plainly, he had hinted at it.

“What shall we do now?” Itoki asked, glancing from Dannyl to Achati. “My baths are large enough to accommodate guests and my slaves are well trained in the art of massage.”

“Ambassador Dannyl might be interested in seeing those ancient maps you collect,” Achati suggested.

Dannyl felt a flash of hope. He had always found old maps intriguing, and it was always possible they might contain information relevant to his research.

“I would not like to bore my guest,” Itoki said doubtfully.

“Remember, I told you earlier that Ambassador Dannyl is a historian. I’m sure he will find them very interesting.”

Itoki looked at Dannyl hopefully. Dannyl nodded in agreement. “I would.”

The man smiled broadly, then rubbed his hands together. “Oh, you’ll be impressed, I’m sure. Most advanced maps ever drawn.” He rose, and Achati and Dannyl followed suit. “I’ll take you to the library.”

They made their way through curved white corridors to a cluster of rooms similar to those Dannyl had been given at the Guild House, and those he and Lorkin had used while staying with Ashaki hosts on their journey to Arvice. It was interesting to see that another Sachakan house followed the same pattern. Were they all the same? How long had Sachakans been building their homes in this way?

The central room held a few stools and a large pile of cushions in the centre, and several cabinets stood against the walls. Through the doorways leading out on all sides Dannyl could see several more. Itoki moved to a cabinet and drew a key out of an inner pocket of his jacket. He unlocked it and pulled open the doors.

Several metal tubes stood on end within. Itoki ran his fingers along them reverently, then chose one and drew it out. He moved to the cushions, nudged several aside to clear an area of floor, then lowered himself onto a stool with a grunt of effort.

“If you position yourselves there and there,” he said, pointing, “we can hold a corner each and weigh the other down.” Achati moved a stool into one of the indicated positions, and Dannyl shifted another to the second. They sat down and watched Itoki remove the cap of the tube and pull out a roll of yellowed paper.

“This isn’t the original, of course,” the man said. “It’s a copy, but it’s still over four hundred years old and a bit delicate.” He laid the roll on the floor and began to unroll it. Dannyl automatically caught the edge closest to him, preventing it from springing back. Achati did the same. At a glance from Itoki a stool rose and floated over to weigh down the last corner with one of its legs.

A great swirling mass of lines was revealed. Blue rivers wound across them, and beside several of them roads matched and reflected every curve. Tiny drawings of buildings, fields and the low walls of estate boundaries covered the map. Contour lines on a four-hundred-year-old map? The Guild didn’t develop the use of contour lines until two hundred years ago. But... this is a copy.

“How old was the original map?” he asked.

“Over seven hundred years,” Itoki replied, with a note of pride. “They’ve been passed down through my family since the Sachakan War.”

“Do you have the originals?”

“Yes,” Itoki grinned. “But they are in fragments, and are too delicate to handle.”

Dannyl looked down at the map again. “What is this map of?”

“A region in western Sachaka, near the mountains. Let me show you the others.” Itoki rose again and collected another two metal tubes from the cabinet. The map he unrolled next was of a coastal area, with tiny boats drawn in the water parts and warnings written next to rocks and reefs. It was followed by one of another rural area.

“This is – was – in the south,” Itoki told him.

Where the wasteland lies, Dannyl thought. He doesn’t state it. He doesn’t have to. The fields and estates hinted at a fertile, green land where sand and dust now dominated.

They examined the maps for some time until, at a signal from Achati, Itoki began rolling them up carefully and sliding them back into their tubes.

“What areas of history are you interested in?” he asked Dannyl.

Dannyl shrugged. “Most of them. Though I suppose the older the better, and naturally any reference to magic is interesting to me.”

“Naturally. That would include Guild history, or is that already well recorded?”

“Yes and no. There are some gaps in Guild history that I am trying to fill.”

“I doubt I could help you there, though I do have some records from the short time that Kyralia ruled Sachaka.” Itoki rose and returned to the cabinet to replace the map tubes, locked the cabinet, then beckoned and moved into one of the side rooms. Dannyl and Achati followed. The tall, heavy cabinets around the room stood like guards on duty, still and silent. Itoki moved to one and opened the doors. Which aren’t locked, Dannyl noted. What’s in them obviously isn’t as valuable.

The familiar smell of old paper and binding wafted out. Inside were several books with missing or tattered covers, frayed rolls of paper and envelopes of leather wrapped around stacks of paper. Itoki rifled through gently, then took out a stack of papers and a book.

“These are letters and records of a Guild magician who lived in Sachaka during the years of occupation. I rescued them from an old estate at the edge of the wasteland that fell into the king’s hands after no legitimate heir came forward to claim it.”

He handed the book to Dannyl. Opening it, Dannyl leafed carefully through the first few brittle old pages. Like many of the old records of Kyralian magicians, they contained both accounting lists and diary entries. Conscious of the two men watching him, he started to skim the contents.

“... offer to purchase our House. I refused it, naturally. The building has belonged to my family for over two centuries. Though the price was tempting. I explained that if we do not own a House in Imardin we will lose the right to call ourselves Lord and Lady. He said land ownership is as important to power and influence here in Sachaka as well.”

Dannyl frowned. This was written after the war, yet here is a reference to a building that is at least two hundred years old and still standing. It is proof that Imardin wasn’t levelled during the war, as our history books claim. His heart skipped. He looked up at the two Sachakans. Clearly he was not going to be able to read the whole book, and make notes, while they waited.

“Do you mind if I copy this passage out?” he asked.

Itoki shook his head. “Not at all. You found something noteworthy?”

“Yes,” Dannyl drew out the notebook and a wrapped stick of compressed charcoal he always carried in his robes. “It confirms something I’ve suspected.”

“That is?” Achati asked.

Dannyl paused to write down the record entry, then looked up. “That Imardin wasn’t destroyed in the Sachakan War.”

Itoki’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve never heard such a thing. According to our histories the final battle happened before the gates, and our armies were defeated.”

Dannyl paused. “Armies? There were more than one?”

“Yes. They came together for the final confrontation. You’d have to ask Master Kirota for the full story, but I can show you some maps drawn after the war that show the three paths of the armies. They are not that old, or relating to magic, though.”

“No, but it sounds like they’d be very interesting.”

As the man took the book from Dannyl and placed it and the stack of letters back in the cabinet, Dannyl felt a pang of disappointment. In a few short moments’ access to this man’s library he’d confirmed something that had nagged at him for years. How much more could he learn?

But it was late and he could not impose on his host too much. And no doubt Ashaki Achati would like to return home soon. Perhaps I can return some time. Then he felt his heart sink. But not for a while, because I have to visit all the other powerful Sachakans wanting to meet the new Guild Ambassador to Sachaka first, or I might show too much favour for one over the rest. Curse the politics of this place!

He would do his best to arrange another visit. In the meantime he must take advantage of any opportunities that came his way. As Ashaki Itoki led the way out of the room to show him the battle maps, Dannyl swallowed his impatience and followed.

Healer Nikea met Sonea at the door of the hospice.

“I’ve arranged a room for us, Black Magician Sonea,” she said, smiling and turning to lead Sonea away. “It’s small but we’ll all squeeze in.”

“All?”

Nikea glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. A few of the Healers I talked to had some interesting stories that we all agreed you should hear first-hand.”

Sonea smiled wryly at the young woman’s back. Most of the time it’s a relief to be around someone who isn’t intimidated by or wary of me, but sometimes there are drawbacks. I wish Nikea had asked me about this first. I don’t want too many people knowing I’m asking questions about rich magicians associating with criminals.

The room the young Healer led her to was a narrow storeroom, worryingly low in supplies. Several chairs had been arranged around the walls. Nikea did not enter, but waited until another Healer stepped into the corridor and then called out to the man.

“Healer Gejen, could you gather the others?”

He nodded and hurried away. After a few minutes he returned with five other women. Two were helpers, Sonea noted. All filed into the room and sat down, then Nikea gestured for Sonea to enter, moved inside and closed the door behind her.

A globe light filled the room with sharp brightness. All but Nikea watched Sonea expectantly.

“Well then,” Nikea said. “Who wants to go first?”

After a short pause, one of the helpers cleared her throat. She was Irala, a quiet middle-aged woman. An efficient helper, though a little cold with the patients sometimes.

“I’ll speak,” she offered. Her gaze shifted back to Sonea. “It’s about time the Guild stopped ignoring this problem.”

“What problem exactly?” Sonea asked.

“Roet. And those who sell it. It’s everywhere. In the Houses they say it spread from the slums like a plague, but out here they say it’s spread by the Houses to control the poor and reduce their numbers. Nobody really knows where it comes from. I’ve heard gossip and stories, though, that say that the ones selling it are rich and as powerful as the Houses, but have their toes rooted in the underworld.”

“I’ve heard plenty say the Thieves are using it to take over the city,” Gejen added. “One person told me it was imported by foreigners to weaken us before they invaded Kyralia. They suspected the Elynes.” The others smiled at this. Clearly none of them believed it.

“Have any of you heard of novices or magicians who crave roet? Who can’t stop taking it?”

The other helper and one of the Healers nodded. “A... a relative of mine,” the helper said. She shrugged apologetically. “He made me swear never to tell anyone so I won’t say his name. He says no matter how long he resists, the need won’t go away. I tell him he just needs to stop long enough for his body to heal properly, but he won’t.”

Sonea felt her heart sink. “Do you know who he buys the roet from?”

“No, he won’t tell me for fear I’ll stop his supply somehow.” The woman frowned. “And he said something about the source being a friend. If he had to find another seller, that person might ask for more than money.”

Sonea nodded. She looked at the others. “Have any of you heard of novices or magicians becoming involved with criminals – whether roet sellers or not? I don’t mean visiting pleasure houses. I mean trading through or with them, doing magic for money or favours?”

“I have,” the other Healer said. In her thirties, she had a young family which her non-magician husband watched over while she worked at the hospice – a practical arrangement that only Healers seemed to find unremarkable. “A few years ago, before I married Torken, a friend I’d known since our University days stopped spending time with us – my University friends, that is. He preferred some non-magician friends in the city, who met in one of these pleasure houses. He told us he wasn’t interested in the things people bought there, just the arrangement he had with the owners. Some sort of importing arrangement. He would never tell us what. Now he doesn’t even live in the Guild. He moved out into a house in the city and spends all his time helping his new friends.”

“Do you think the trade is illegal?”

She nodded. “But I don’t have proof.”

“Is he addicted to roet?”

The Healer shook her head. “Too smart for that.”

Sonea frowned. This was bad news, and something Regin would be interested to hear about, but it didn’t prove that roet was being used to lure magicians into criminal activity.

“Well, it’s always been known that some novices from the Houses have dealings with Thieves,” the other woman said. She was a thin woman named Sylia, who was a powerful and skilled Healer.

“But is that rumour or is there evidence?” Sonea asked.

“There is never evidence.” Sylia shrugged. “But young novices have always bragged about it. Often to bluff their way out of trouble with other novices, but if you asked enough questions there were always some rumours that stuck more than others.”

The others were nodding. “There’s truth in those rumours,” Gejen agreed. “It’s just difficult to know which rumour has truth in it.”

“So... do you think the rule against novices and magicians associating with criminals or unsavoury types has any effect at all on higher-class novices?”

“Yes and no,” Gejen replied. “There’s no doubt that it prevents some from taking the risk, but those who are foolish, or whose families are already involved in crime, won’t be dissuaded.” The others nodded in agreement, some smiling knowingly.

“And if the rule was abolished, would more be tempted?”

The five exchanged glances.

“Probably,” Sylia said. She shrugged. “Since the Thieves are involved in everything, and rich and powerful enough to offer tempting payment.”

“Like payment in roet,” Irala added.

“Any rule that reduces the number of novices and magicians caught up in gambling, drink and roet is good, as far as I’m concerned,” Gejen said. The others hummed in agreement.

“But the rule is unfair and ineffective as it is,” Sylia added. “It shouldn’t be abolished, just changed.”

As the five began discussing how, some quite passionately, a shiver of realisation ran through Sonea. They’ve all been thinking about this. And debating it. Have other magicians given the rule this much consideration? Are they all discussing it? Then she felt her heart skip. Can I gauge from them how the vote might go, if it’s put to the entire Guild?

She listened to them carefully, and while they talked she began devising another set of questions to ask them. This was going to be a more useful information-gathering exercise than she had planned or expected.

Chapter 12
Discoveries

As Lorkin followed the slave down the corridor of Ashaki Itoki’s home, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Despite everything that his friend Perler had told him, he was still not entirely sure how to behave around the Ashaki. To be a magician and a landowner gave one the highest status in Sachakan society aside from the king. A magician who did not own land but was an heir to an Ashaki was one level lower in status than the Ashaki. A magician who was not an heir was next, then any free non-magician – both of whom were dependent on an Ashaki for an income and to broker trade deals or marriages.

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 bench. 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.

Yet when he did finally settle in his bed, he dreamed he was arguing with Tayend – who had somehow become a Sachakan Ashaki – about the stunningly handsome male slaves he owned. Do as the locals do, Tayend told him. We’d expect the same from them if they came to Kyralia. And remember, I’m not the first Guild magician to own slaves. Remember that, in the morning.

Chapter 13
The Trap

As the carriage stopped before the door to Regin’s home, Sonea felt a reluctance steal over her. She remained seated, while memories rose of being exhausted and helpless, tormented by a young novice and his friends in the depths of the University late at night.

Then she remembered that same novice backing away from a Sachakan Ichani, having volunteered to be the bait in a trap that could have easily gone wrong. And his words: “... if I live through all this, I’ll try to make it up to you.”

Had he? She shook her head.

After the war, many of Imardin’s powerful Houses had been anxious to replace the family members who had died in the battle, knowing that the more magicians each House had the greater the prestige. Regin had married soon after graduating, and the gossip about the Guild suggested he did not much like the wife his family had chosen for him.

He had done nothing unpleasant to Sonea since those early University days. Certainly none of the petty pranks of a novice, but also no moves against her as an adult. Twenty years had passed. So why did she feel this reluctance to face him in his own home? Was she still wary of him? Or was she worried that she would be rude out of her old habit of dislike and distrust of him? It was childish to resent him for things he’d done to her when he was young and foolish. Rothen was right that Regin had matured into a sensible man.

But old habits are as hard to shift as old stains, she thought.

Forcing herself to rise, she climbed out of the carriage. As always, she paused to take in her surroundings. She did not have the opportunity to see the city streets often.

Naturally, this street was a part of the Inner Circle, since Regin’s family and House were old and powerful and only the most rich and influential could afford to live this close to the Palace. It looked much the same as streets in the Inner Circle always had, with large two- and three-storey buildings – many showing subtle signs of repair work, or entirely new facades, completed soon after the Ichani Invasion.

Sonea turned her attention to the people walking the street. A few men and women strolled along it, their high status obvious from their clothing, and one magician. The rest were servants. But then she noticed a group of four men leaving a building at the end of the street and entering a carriage. Though they wore the finery of the rich, there was something about their stature and movements that brought to mind the confident brutality of street gangs.

I could just be imagining it, she told herself. Could be making connections only because I’ve heard Regin talking about criminal connections in the Houses so much lately.

Turning away, she walked up to the door of Regin’s house and knocked. A moment later the door opened and a slim, sour-faced servant bowed deeply before her.

“Black Magician Sonea,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice. “Lord Regin is expecting you. I will take you to him.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He guided her through a large hall and up a curving staircase. Crossing a hall, they entered a large room filled with cushioned chairs, sunlight streaming in through tall windows on one side. The cloth covering the chairs, the paint on the walls and the paper screens were in bright, clashing colours.

Two people rose from their seats – Regin and a woman Sonea guessed was his wife. The woman approached Sonea with outstretched arms as if she meant to envelop her visitor in them, but at the last moment she clasped her hands together.

“Black Magician Sonea!” she exclaimed. “Such an honour to have you in our home.”

“This is Wynina, my wife,” Regin said.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Sonea told Wynina.

The woman beamed. “I have heard so much about you. It’s not often we have a historical figure in our home.”

Sonea tried to think of something appropriate to say in reply, but couldn’t. The woman flushed, then put a hand to her mouth. “Well,” she said, looking from Regin to Sonea. “You two have serious matters to discuss. I’ll leave you be.”

She moved to the door, turned back to smile at Sonea, then disappeared into the corridor beyond. Regin chuckled.

“She’s quite intimidated by you,” he said in a low voice, gesturing to the chairs in an invitation to sit.

“Really?” Sonea moved to one of the chairs and sat down. “She didn’t seem it.”

“Oh, she’s normally much more verbose.” He smiled thinly. “But I imagine there is something more important you have come to discuss?”

“Yes.” Sonea paused to take a deep breath. “I have been questioning Healers and helpers at the hospices, and it has led me to agree with you: it would be harmful to abolish the rule against associating with criminals.”

She had decided not to mention her suspicions about roet’s potential to permanently affect magicians’ bodies. When she had mentioned her suspicion to Lady Vinara the woman had been politely disbelieving. It would take a lot more than one stoneworker’s claims to convince magicians that they couldn’t Heal away the drug’s effects. Until Sonea had the time to test her theory, she would have to keep the idea to herself. And even if she did prove it, there were some in the Guild who would blame the lower classes for the problem, and that would only worsen the situation the rule had put the “lowies” in.

Regin straightened, his eyebrows rising slightly. “I see.”

“But I still believe the rule is unfair to novices and magicians from the lower classes,” Sonea continued, “and that we must do something to resolve that, or we are going to lose talented and powerful novices – or worse, invite rebellion.”

Regin nodded. “I have come to agree with you on this. And for quite opposite reasons I feel we must ensure that those magicians charged with ensuring the rule is obeyed and punishing those who break it do so fairly and without favour.”

“The rule must be changed, not abolished,” Sonea concluded.

“I agree.”

They regarded each other in expectant silence, then Sonea found herself smiling. “Well, that was easier than I thought.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Now we face the hard part. How should the rule be changed and how are we going to convince the Higher Magicians – or the rest of the Guild – to vote the way we want them to vote?”

“Hmm.” Sonea frowned. “It might be easier to plan our approach if we knew who was going to be voting.”

Regin steepled his fingers together. “Osen will be more likely to decide the way we want him to swing if we both suggest the same thing. We must go to him, separately, and tell him our preference. Or you must persuade Lord Pendel to, as he is the leader of those seeking the abolition of the rule.”

Sonea nodded. “I think he will listen to me. But I will have to give him a good reason to suggest one way or the other. And you?”

“I will do what I can to soften the stance of the opposed. We must explore the advantages and disadvantages of both possibilities thoroughly, so we are ready for all arguments raised against us.”

“Yes. Though we need to consider a different approach according to who we need to convince: either the Higher Magicians or the whole Guild. I suspect, given the choice between abolition of the rule, retaining it or changing it, most of the Higher Magicians would vote to keep things as they are.”

“You’re probably right. Putting the vote to the whole Guild may have a less predictable outcome, but will most likely lead to seeking a compromise – which will be to change the rule. How to change the rule will be the main focus of the debate.”

“Yes.” Sonea smiled crookedly. “Which brings us back to the hardest question: how do we want to change the rule?”

Regin nodded. “Well, I have a few ideas. Shall I go first?”

She nodded. “Go ahead.”

As he began to explain the changes he’d considered, Sonea could not help feeling a reluctant admiration for the careful thought he’d put into the problem. It was clear he’d been thinking about it for much longer than the few weeks the issue had been debated around the Guild. Yet, unlike some of the women and men she had questioned, the solutions he was suggesting were practical and unbiased. Where is the arrogant, prejudiced snob that I knew as a novice? Is he simply better at hiding it now?

Or had he changed? Even if he had, it would take more than a few clever solutions to a class problem within the Guild to convince her to trust him. No matter what he said, she would always be waiting for the cruel side she knew Regin possessed to surface again.

After Dannyl had left for the evening, and the slaves had served dinner, Lorkin had returned to his rooms. There wasn’t a lot of work for him to do as Dannyl’s assistant yet. Apart from the one visit to Ashaki Itoki’s home, he hadn’t left the Guild House. Only a small part of the work that Dannyl tackled during the day could be handed on to Lorkin.

He spent the evenings reading or questioning the slaves. The latter was proving harder than he expected. While the slaves always responded to his questions, they offered no more than the most basic answer. If he asked them if there was anything else he needed to know they looked confused and anxious.

But it’s probably impossible for them to know what I need to know, he thought. And they’re reluctant to guess in case they get it wrong and it angers me. Initiative is probably a trait discouraged in a slave.

He had a feeling that the dark-eyed girl who had first taken him to his room – Tyvara – might be more receptive, though he wasn’t sure why. She hadn’t served him since that first night, however. Tonight he had nothing pressing to do, so he’d asked the slave serving him to bring her to him.

They probably all think I want to bed her, he mused, remembering her misunderstanding the first night. Tyvara probably will, too. I’ll have to reassure her that isn’t my intention. Is there any way I can encourage her to talk freely?

He looked around and his eyes settled on the cupboard containing wine and glasses for his own use or entertaining guests. Before he could cross the room to collect them, he saw a movement in the doorway. Tyvara stepped into the room and approached him, stopping several steps away to prostrate herself.

“Rise, Tyvara,” he told her. She stood, and her gaze remained on the floor. Her face was expressionless, and he was not sure if it was his imagination that made her seem a little tense. “Fetch me two glasses and some wine,” he ordered.

She obeyed, her movements quick but graceful. He sat down on one of the stools in the centre of the room and waited for her. She placed the glasses and a bottle on the floor, then knelt beside them.

“Open it,” he instructed. “And fill both of them. One is for you.”

Her hands had begun to reach toward the bottle, but now hesitated. Then they continued in the tasks required of them. When both glasses were full she lifted one and handed it to him. He took it and gestured to the other.

“Drink. I have some questions for you. Only questions,” he added. “Hopefully nothing that will compromise you in any way. If I ask anything that will get you in trouble by answering, tell me that instead.”

She looked at the glass, then picked it up with obvious reluctance. He sipped. She followed suit, and the muscles around her mouth twitched into a faint grimace.

“You don’t like wine?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Oh.” He cast about. “Then don’t drink it. Put it aside.”

There was a definite air of dislike to the way she set it down as far away from herself as she could stretch. He took another mouthful from his own glass, considering what to ask next.

“Is... is there any way I should be behaving toward the slaves here that I am... I am neglecting... or getting wrong?”

She shook her head quickly. Too quickly. He reconsidered the question.

“Is there any way I could improve my interaction with the slaves here? Make things more efficient? Easier?”

Again, she shook her head, but not as quickly.

“Am I making a total fool of myself when interacting with slaves?”

The slightest hint of a smile touched her lips, then she shook her head once more.

“You hesitated then,” he pointed out, leaning toward her. “There’s something, isn’t there? I’m not making a fool of myself, but instead I’m doing something unnecessary or silly, aren’t I?”

She paused, then shrugged.

“What is it?”

“You don’t need to thank us,” she said.

Her melodic, husky voice was a revelation after all the silent gestures. He felt a shiver run down his spine. If she wasn’t a slave, I think I’d find her immensely fascinating. And if she wasn’t dressed in that awful wrap dress, probably quite attractive as well.

But he hadn’t called her here to romance her.

“Ah,” he said. “That’s a habit – what we consider good manners in Kyralia. But if it makes things easier, I’ll try not to do it.”

She nodded.

What next? “Other than thanking slaves unnecessarily, is there anything I or Dannyl have been doing in our interaction with slaves that would make us look foolish to free Sachakans?”

She frowned, and her mouth opened, but then she seemed to freeze. He saw her eyes roaming about the floor, focusing as close to him as his feet, then flickering away. She is afraid of how I’ll respond to her answer.

“The truth will not anger me, Tyvara,” he said gently. “Instead it may be a great help to us.”

She swallowed, then bowed her head even further.

“You will lose status if you do not take a slave to bed.”

He felt a flash of shock, then of amusement. Questions flooded his mind. Did he and Dannyl care about losing status for such a reason? Should they? But then, how damaging was their inaction? Had previous Guild Ambassadors and assistants bedded the slaves here?

But, more importantly, how would free Sachakans know if the new Guild Ambassador and his assistant bedded their slaves or not?

Clearly such information isn’t kept a secret. The slaves here are, after all, the Sachakan king’s possessions. It would be stupid to think our prowess in the bedroom wasn’t discussed and judged.

And then he smiled, thinking of all those powerful Sachakan Ashaki gossiping like old women.

He should find out what the consequences were, while he had Tyvara talking.

“How much status will we lose?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I cannot say. I only know they will not respect you as much.”

Does that mean none of the previous Guild House occupants found this out, because none of them refused the opportunity? He looked at Tyvara. If only she would look at me. And look at me without hesitation or subservience. To see her stand straight and tall with confidence and fearlessness, or for those dark eyes to express true, willing desire, I would take her to bed without hesitation. But this... I couldn’t do it. Not even to help Dannyl gain respect in the Ashaki’s eyes.

And it was unlikely Dannyl was taking any of the female slaves to bed either.

“I don’t care about status,” he told Tyvara. “A man should be judged by his integrity, not by how many women he takes to bed – slave or free, willing or otherwise.”

She glanced up at him for the briefest moment, an intense look in her eyes, but quickly dropped her head again. He saw her teeth flash as they pressed against her lower lip, then she grimaced.

“What is it?” he asked. She is afraid. How does this affect her? Of course! She will be punished if it is thought she didn’t please me. “What will they do to you?”

“They will... they will send someone else. And another.” And they will all be punished, her words seemed to hint.

He bit back a curse. “If they do, I will ask for you. If you want me to, of course,” he added. “We will talk. Tell each other about ourselves and our countries, or something. I don’t see how I’m going to learn about Sachaka otherwise, shut up in the Guild House – and I’d really like to know more about your people. And yourself. How does that sound? Will it work?”

She paused, then nodded. Relieved, he took in a deep breath and let it out again. “So tell me something about yourself, then. Where were you born?”

Even as she began to describe the breeding house where she had been raised, he felt the horror of her story eased by something inexplicable. She was talking to him. Finally a Sachakan was actually communicating with him beyond orders and answers. It had never occurred to him that he might be lonely in Sachaka. Listening to her, he realised she suddenly seemed much more human – something he might come to regret later. But for now he relaxed and listened to the beautiful, hypnotic voice of this slave woman, and savoured every word.

The roof of the pawnshop was surprisingly well constructed. Cery and Gol had crawled out on it a few hours ago, when the full darkness of night had set in. They’d separated the tiles they’d sent a street urchin up to loosen for them earlier that day, and now were looking through cracks between them down at the room where Makkin the Buyer kept his safebox.

Inside that safebox were Makkin’s most valuable books, including a new volume about Healing magic. After visiting the shop, pretending to view the book for the first time and making sure Makkin didn’t sell it before Cery could return with the money for it, Cery had visited a few of the drinking establishments they patronised to boast about the special volume he’d be buying just as soon as someone paid their debt to him – which would probably be tomorrow.

It could be a long night, Cery thought, carefully stretching the stiffness out of one leg. But if all goes to plan we won’t have to lie out here in the night air for more than one. We just have to hope the Thief Hunter is a magician... and has the hunger for knowledge we assume he has... and has heard about my boasting today... and hasn’t got something more important to do tonight.

Cery had to admit he was acting on only rumour and guesses. He could easily be wrong about a great number of things. The magician that had opened the locks in Cery’s hideout might not be the Thief Hunter. He might have been in the employ of the Thief Hunter, or someone else. He might not be a customer of Makkin’s.

But this is not so wild an idea that it’s not worth trying. And it’s the only lead we have.

Shifting his weight, he stretched the other leg. At times like this he was all too aware that he was getting older. He could not climb up the sides of buildings using only a few handholds or a rope, or leap the gaps between them so fearlessly. His muscles stiffened up quickly in the cold air, and took longer to recover from exertion.

And I don’t have a beautiful Sachakan woman nearby to catch me with her magic if the roof collapses.

Old, pleasant memories flashed through his mind. Savara. Mysterious. Seductive. Dangerous. A skilled fighter. The practice bouts he’d had with her had been challenging and exciting, and he’d picked up more than a few new tricks. She’d known too much about the deal he’d made with High Lord Akkarin to kill off the freed Sachakan slaves that the Ichani had sent to Imardin as spies, and to expose the Guild’s weaknesses. But he’d also sensed that he’d not easily get rid of her. That it was better to keep her occupied thinking she was helping him, without letting her get too close to the truth.

She’d worked that one out pretty fast. And then there was that night when they’d watched Sonea and Akkarin fight and kill an Ichani woman. The battle had caused the roof to collapse under them, but Savara had stopped him falling with magic. And then things had become much more personal...

After the Ichani Invasion she’d left, returning to the people she worked for. He’d never seen her again, though he’d often wondered where she was and if she was alive and safe. She would most likely have ventured into dangerous situations again and again for the sake of her people, so it was easily possible one had led to her death.

I was never in love with her, he reminded himself. Nor was she in love with me. I admired her, for both her body and mind. She found me a useful and entertaining ally and distraction. If she’d stayed we wouldn’t have...

A sound below drew his attention back to the present. Peering through the crack between the roof tiles again, Cery saw two people climb the stairs into the small room below. One he recognised instantly: Makkin, carrying a lamp. The other was a dark-skinned woman.

“Is that it?” she asked. Her voice was strangely accented and had the hoarseness of age, but she moved with the vitality of a younger person. The Thief Hunter is a woman? Cery thought. That’s... interesting. It seems I’m doomed to know or be the target of very powerful and dangerous women.

“Yes,” Makkin replied. “That’s it. They’re in there. But—”

“Open it!” the woman ordered.

“I can’t! They took the key. Said that way I couldn’t sell it to anyone else before they came back with the money.”

“What? You’re lying!”

“No! Nonononono!” The pawnshop owner threw up his arms and cringed away from her. His behaviour was a little extreme for someone a head taller than the woman stalking toward him. As if he knows she is more dangerous than she looks.

The woman waved her arms. “Get out,” she ordered. “Leave the lamp, get out of this shop and don’t come back until tomorrow.”

“Yes! Thank you! I’m sorry I couldn’t—”

“OUT!”

He tore back down the stairs as if a wild beast were in pursuit. The woman waited, listening to Makkin’s footsteps. The sound of the shop door slamming echoed up to Cery’s ears.

The woman turned to look at the safebox, then her shoulders straightened. She approached it slowly, then squatted before it and went still. Cery could not see her face, but he saw her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed deeply.

A moment later the lock clicked open.

Gol let out a quiet gasp. Cery smiled grimly. Locks don’t just open of their own will. She must have used magic. I have the proof I need that we have a rogue in the city. It wasn’t proof that she was the Thief Hunter, though, but what if she was? He felt a chill run up his spine at the thought. Was the woman below really the murderer who had killed so many Thieves?

She was examining the books within the safebox now. He recognised the one on magic. Opening it, the woman flicked through the pages, then muttered something and tossed it aside. Picking up another book, she examined it as well. When she had looked at all of the tomes she slowly stood up. Her fists clenched and she uttered a strange word.

What did she say? He frowned. Wait a moment. That was a different language. She’s foreign. But she hadn’t said enough for him to recognise the language or even her accent. If only she would speak again. A whole sentence, not only a curse word.

But the woman remained silent. She rose and turned her back on the safebox and its contents, now strewn about the room. Walking away, she reached the stairs and disappeared into the darkness of the shop below. The door slammed again. Faint footsteps faded in the street beyond.

Cery remained still and silent, waiting until they were sure that if anyone had heard the woman shouting they would have lost interest and stopped watching the shop. He considered his plan. We have the information we need. The only surprise is that the magician is a woman and a foreigner. That doesn’t make her any less dangerous, whether she is the Thief Hunter or not. And if foreign magicians are taking up residence in Imardin, Sonea will definitely want to know about it.

And Skellin. Should he tell the other Thief?

I don’t have proof that she is the Thief Hunter. I only have proof that she is the Rogue. I’d rather Skellin didn’t know that Sonea and I still communicate. If the Guild captures this woman they’ll read her mind and find out once and for all if she is the killer. If she isn’t, then there’s nothing to tell Skellin.

And if she was... well, once the Guild found and dealt with the Rogue there’d be no Thief Hunter to worry about any more.

Chapter 14
Unexpected Allies

“So who am I meeting tonight?” Dannyl asked Ashaki Achati as the carriage set out from the Guild House.

The Sachakan magician smiled. “Your ploy of not nagging to see the king has worked. He has invited you to the palace.”

Dannyl blinked in surprise, then considered all that Lord Maron had told him about the Sachakan king and protocol. The former Ambassador had said that the king refused an audience as often as he granted one, and that there was no point Dannyl seeking one unless he had something to discuss. “I wasn’t aware that I should have been nagging. Should I apologise for that?”

Achati chuckled. “Only if you feel you must. As I am the liaison between the Guild House and the king, it is up to me to advise you how and when to seek an audience with him. I would have told you to wait until he invites you. Since you weren’t making any mistakes, there was little reason to raise the subject.”

“So it wasn’t a mistake to not ask to see him.”

“No. Though showing no interest might have caused offence eventually.”

Dannyl nodded. “When I was the Second Guild Ambassador in Elyne I was required to present myself to the king once, which was arranged for me by the First Guild Ambassador. After that it was only to be for important matters, most of which the First Ambassador took care of.”

“That is interesting. You have two Ambassadors in Elyne, then?”

“Yes. There is too much work for one person. Somehow we wound up with as much work that didn’t relate to the Guild and magic as work that did.”

“Your work here is even less related to magic and magicians,” Achati pointed out. “You are not assessing new recruits or keeping track of graduated magicians. You’re mostly dealing with issues of trade.”

Dannyl nodded. “It is entirely different, yet so far it has been very pleasant. I expect once I have met all of the important people I will no longer be treated to nightly meals and conversations.”

Achati’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, you may find yourself even more in demand once I am no longer required to escort you. Entertaining another Sachakan can be an exhausting and politically perilous exercise. You are both exotic and not too easily offended, so an easy guest to entertain.” He gestured to the carriage window. “Look outside as we turn the corner.”

The vehicle slowed and the wall beside them ended. A wide road came into sight. Long beds of flowers appeared, sheltered by enormous trees. Where these gardens ended, a large building stood. White walls curved out from a central archway like carefully draped curtains. Shallow domes rose above them, glittering in the sunlight. Dannyl felt his heart lift at the sight.

“That’s the palace? It’s beautiful,” he said, leaning forward to keep the building in view as the carriage turned into the road. But soon he could only see the white walls of the mansions to the side. He turned back to Ashaki Achati to see the man smiling in approval.

“It is over a thousand years old,” the Sachakan said, with pride. “Parts had to be rebuilt over the years, of course. The walls are doubled so that defenders can hide within and strike at invaders through holes and hatches.” He shrugged. “Not that they have ever been used for that purpose. When Kyralia’s army arrived here ours had already been defeated, and the last emperor surrendered without resistance.”

Dannyl nodded. He had learned as much from basic history classes during his University years, and his research had confirmed it.

“The third king had the domes plated with gold,” Achati continued. He shook his head. “A frivolous indulgence in what was a time of starvation, but they are so beautiful that nobody has ever removed them, and from time to time a king will see that they are cleaned and mended.”

The carriage began to slow and turn, and Dannyl watched eagerly as the palace came in sight again. Once he and Achati had alighted, they stopped to gaze up at the building in admiration for a moment before starting toward the central archway.

Guards at either side of the entrance remained frozen, their gaze set on the distance. They weren’t slaves, Dannyl remembered, but were recruited from the lowest ranks of the Sachakan families. I suppose having your palace guarded by slaves wouldn’t be particularly effective. Guards who throw themselves on the ground whenever someone important walks by are hardly going to react quickly to defend anything or anyone.

They passed through two open doors, then followed a wide corridor with no side entrances. At the end of this was a large room filled with columns. The floor and walls were polished stone. Their footsteps echoed as they walked. Toward the back of this room was a large stone chair, and in it sat an old man wearing the most elaborately decorated clothes Dannyl had seen on any Sachakan since he’d arrived.

He doesn’t look comfortable, he noted. And he looks like he’d like to get off that throne at the first opportunity, too.

Men stood about the room, alone or in twos and threes. They watched silently as Dannyl and Ashaki Achati approached. About twenty paces from the king, Achati stopped and glanced at Dannyl.

The glance was a signal. Achati bowed deeply. Dannyl dropped to one knee.

Lord Maron had explained that Sachakans felt that nothing less than the gesture considered most respectful by an individual – especially a foreigner – was what their king deserved. So the traditional Kyralian and Elyne obeisance to a king was the most appropriate, despite the fact that Sachakans did not kneel before their own king.

“Rise, Ambassador Dannyl,” an elderly voice spoke. “Welcome, to you and my good friend Ashaki Achati.”

Dannyl was grateful the contact with the floor had been brief. The stone was cold. He looked up at the king and was surprised to find the man had left the throne and was walking toward them.

“It is an honour to meet you, King Amakira,” he replied.

“And a pleasure for me to meet the new Guild Ambassador at last.” The old man’s eyes were dark and unreadable, but the wrinkles around them deepened with a genuine smile. “Would you like to see more of the palace?”

“I would, your majesty,” Dannyl replied.

“Come with me and I’ll show you around.”

Ashaki Achati waved a hand to indicate that Dannyl should walk beside the king, then followed behind as the ruler led them out of the hall through a side entrance. A wide corridor ran alongside the hall, before curving off in another direction. As the king repeated what Achati had told Dannyl of the age of the palace, he led them through more sinuous corridors and odd-shaped rooms. Soon Dannyl was completely disorientated. I wonder if that is the point of all the curved walls. And if the entrance corridor and greeting hall are the only square rooms in the building.

“You have an interest in history, I have been told,” the king said, looking at Dannyl with one eyebrow raised.

“Yes. I am writing a history of magic, your majesty.”

“A book! I would like to write a book one day. How close are you to finishing?”

Dannyl shrugged. “I don’t know. There are some gaps in Kyralia’s history that I’d like to fill before printing the book.”

“What gaps are they?”

“According to the history taught in the Guild University, Imardin was levelled during the Sachakan War, but I’ve found no evidence of it. In fact, I have found some evidence to the contrary in Ashaki Itoki’s collection.”

“Of course it wasn’t levelled!” the king exclaimed, smiling. “We lost the final battle!”

Dannyl spread his hands. “It might have been destroyed during the battle, however.”

“There’s no mention of it in our records. Though... few Sachakans survived the last battle and even fewer returned home, so most of the information was gleaned from the Kyralians who conquered us. I guess they could have painted a better picture than the reality.” The king shrugged. “So where do you think this idea that the city was levelled came from?”

“Maps and buildings,” Dannyl replied. “There are no buildings older than four hundred years, and the few maps we have from before the Sachakan War show an entirely different street plan.”

“Then you should be looking at events from four hundred years ago,” the king concluded. “Was there any battle fought in the city at that time? Or a disaster such as a flood or fire?”

Dannyl nodded. “There was, but few magicians believe it was drastic enough to level the city. Many records from that time were destroyed.” He paused, hoping the king wouldn’t ask why. The event he referred to was the story of Tagin, the Mad Apprentice, which was the story of why the Guild had banned black magic. He could not help feeling reluctant to remind the Sachakan king that most Guild magicians did not learn black magic.

“If this event was great enough to ruin a city it would have destroyed any records within the city as well.”

Dannyl nodded. “But the Guild wasn’t destroyed. I’ve found many references to the library it contained. By all accounts, it was well stocked.”

“Perhaps those books had been moved.”

Dannyl frowned. I guess it’s possible Tagin had the contents of the Guild library brought to the palace. He was only an apprentice, so there must have been gaps in his learning that he was eager to fill. I’d assumed the books were all destroyed deliberately. But if they were destroyed when Tagin died then most of the work had been done already.

“I am surprised Kyralian history is so muddled. But we have gaps in our history as well. Come in here.” The king ushered Dannyl and Achati into a small, round room. The walls and floor were polished stone, as was the ceiling. There was only one entrance. In the centre stood a column about waist high.

“Something important once lay here,” the king said, running a palm over the flat top of the column. “We don’t know what it was, but we do know two things: it was a thing of power, either political or magical, and the Guild stole it.”

Dannyl looked at the king, then back at the column. The storestone that Lorkin found references to? The king’s expression was serious and he watched Dannyl closely.

“I’ve encountered a reference to an artefact taken from this palace,” Dannyl told him. “But I’d not heard about it before coming to Sachaka. That reference also stated that the object had been stolen from the Guild magicians here.”

The king shrugged. “Well, that is what palace folklore says. Our records say nothing more than that something called a ‘storestone’ was stolen by a Guild magician.” He drummed on the column top with both hands. “Not long after it was taken, the wastes appeared. Some believe that the removal of the talisman lifted some sort of magical protection over the land that had kept it fertile and productive.”

“Now that’s a new and interesting idea,” Dannyl said. Lorkin will be intrigued to hear this. “I have been told that attempts have been made to return the wastes to their former state, but they were unsuccessful.”

The king’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, yes. Plenty have tried; all have failed. Even if we knew how to replace the protection that was removed, I suspect it is too big a task for a few magicians. It would take thousands.” He smiled wryly. “And Sachaka no longer has thousands of magicians to call upon. Even if we had, trying to unite magicians is like trying to prevent the sun rising or the tide’s ebb.”

Dannyl nodded. “But there was only one talisman, wasn’t there? Sometimes all it takes is one man and a little knowledge to do great things.”

The king smiled crookedly. “Yes. And sometimes it only takes one man and a little knowledge to do a great deal of harm.” He stepped away from the column and gestured toward the door. “You don’t seem that kind of man, Ambassador Dannyl.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Dannyl replied.

The king chuckled. “As am I. Come. It’s time I showed you the library.”

From her seat high at the front of the Guildhall, Sonea watched the room filling up with magicians. A few patches of purple, red and green had formed, which was a recent phenomenon. Magicians from the Houses tended to sit with family members and allies rather than those of their own discipline, and that led to a mix of robe colours. But magicians from outside the Houses tended to form friendships with those of the same discipline, and the collective effect was a patch of the same robe colour in the audience.

As the last stragglers took their seats, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. How will they vote today? Will they act out of fear that “lowies” may rebel against the Guild if rules are too restrictive? Will they act out of fear of criminal groups gaining too much influence on magicians and novices? Or will they want to abolish the rule so that they can indulge in pleasure houses and other entertainments run by Thieves without restriction? Or in order to continue to benefit from their own illegal enterprises with less danger of discovery?

A gong rang out. Sonea looked down to see Osen striding across the front of the hall. The buzz of voices immediately began to diminish, and when all had quietened the Administrator’s voice rang out.

“Today we have gathered to decide whether or not to grant the request, made by Lord Pendel and others, that we abolish the rule that states: ‘No magician or novice may associate with criminals and people of unsavoury character.’ I have decided that this is a decision that should be made by all magicians, by vote. I now request that the side for abolition of the rule sum up their position and reasoning, beginning with Lord Pendel.”

Lord Pendel had been standing at the side of the room, and now stepped forward. He turned to face the majority of magicians and began to speak.

Sonea listened closely. It had not been easy persuading him to offer a compromise to the Guild, and even now she was not completely sure if he would. He began by pointing out where the rule had failed, or had been applied unfairly. Then he tackled the reasoning of those opposed to the rule’s abolition. Then he began to paint a picture of a more unified Guild in conclusion. Sonea frowned. He is going to wind this up without even a suggestion that a compromise may be possible.

“If there is to be a rule to prevent magicians and novices from involving themselves with criminal enterprises – and I do think there should be one – then it should be designed to achieve that. What is clear from the cases I have described is that this is not a rule suited for that purpose. It is ineffective and should be abolished.”

I suppose the message is in there, though it’s very subtle, Sonea thought. Now let’s see if Regin keeps his side of our agreement.

As Lord Pendel bowed to the audience and stepped aside, Administrator Osen returned to the front.

“I now call upon Lord Regin to speak for the opposition to the abolition of the rule.”

Regin strode forward. If he was disappointed with Pendel’s effort at suggesting a compromise, he didn’t show it. He turned to face the hall and began to speak.

Knowing what she did about the corruption among the higher-class novices, Sonea could not help admiring how Regin managed to avoid saying anything that would directly reveal who the culprits and victims were. Yet he didn’t shy from claiming such corruption existed, and Sonea heard no more than a few protests from the watching audience of magicians.

I wish I could have given him proof of the permanent effects of roet for magicians. It might have helped us persuade everyone that the rule should be changed, instead of abolished.

As Regin concluded his speech, Sonea felt her heart skip a beat. He hadn’t suggested a compromise. But as he summed up, she realised there was a hint of admission in his words that the rule was ineffective as it stood. A subtle shift in position, but no stronger or weaker than Pendel’s.

Had he anticipated that or did he change tack in response? Or did he have different approaches planned in case of different eventualities? She shook her head. I’m glad it’s not me down there, speaking in his place.

“I now call for ten minutes of discussion,” Osen said. The gong rang out a second time and immediately the hall filled with voices. Sonea turned to watch and listen to the Higher Magicians.

At first none spoke. All seemed hesitant and indecisive. Then High Lord Balkan sighed.

“There is merit in both arguments,” he stated. “Do any of you favour one or the other?”

“I favour keeping the rule,” Lady Vinara said. “These are bad times for relaxing control over magicians. The city is more corrupt than it has ever been, and keeping ourselves immune is more complicated now that we no longer all have similar strengths and weaknesses.”

Sonea resisted a smile. “Strengths and weaknesses.” A clever way of pointing out we have different backgrounds without making one sound better than the other.

“But it is clear the rule is unfair, and we do risk rebellion at the worst, or the loss of much-needed talent at the best,” Lord Peakin argued.

“It is only the application of the rule that is at fault,” Vinara replied.

“I don’t think the lowies will accept a promise we’ll be fairer,” Lord Erayk pointed out. “They need something stronger. A real change.”

“Change sounds like the solution to me,” Lord Peakin said. “Or a clarification. What is an ‘unsavoury character’, after all?” His eyebrows rose and he looked around. “I’d find someone who smells bad unsavoury. That’s hardly justification for punishing a magician.”

There were a few chuckles.

“Black Magician Sonea.”

Sonea felt her heart sink as she recognised Kallen’s voice. She looked past High Lord Balkan at the man.

“Yes, Black Magician Kallen?” she replied.

“You have been meeting with the representatives of both sides. What have you concluded?”

The others were looking at her expectantly now. She paused to consider how to answer.

“I am in favour of the rule being changed. Of removing the reference to ‘unsavoury characters’, which not only eases the restrictions and perceived prejudice against novices and magicians from poorer backgrounds, it strengthens the emphasis on ‘criminals’ as those we don’t want Guild members associating with.”

To her consternation, none of the Higher Magicians looked surprised. Not even Rothen. Clearly they expected me to take this position. I hope that is because it is fairer, not because I grew up in the old slums.

“Even with this change, the weakness of the rule is the ambiguity in what a criminal is, or whether an activity is a crime,” Lord Erayk said.

“The king might not appreciate you calling his laws ‘ambiguous’,” Lord Peakin pointed out, chuckling. “His laws clearly state what is a crime.”

“I agree that certain activities need to be defined,” Lady Vinara said. “As the laws stand, it is difficult for us to prevent criminals taking advantage of magicians when those magicians are in their pleasure houses – whether by luring them into debt through gambling, addling their minds with drink, rewarding them with free whores or poisoning them with roet. If I had my way, roet selling would be a crime.”

“Why roet?” Lord Telano asked. “It is little different to drink, and I’m sure none of us would like wine to be declared illegal.” He glanced around, smiling and getting many nods in reply.

“Roet does far more harm,” Vinara told him.

“How so?”

She opened her mouth, then shook her head as a gong rang out. “Come to the Healer’s Quarters – or Black Magician Sonea’s hospices – and you will see the truth of it.”

Sonea’s heart skipped. Had Vinara investigated the effects of roet since Sonea told her of them? She looked at Vinara, but the woman’s attention was on Telano. He had turned away, scowling. I wonder why he is so bothered by Vinara’s position. And surely, as a Healer, he’s seen the effect of roet on its victims – even if he hasn’t realised it could be permanent. I must have a closer look at our Head of Healing Studies and talk to Lady Vinara again.

Administrator Osen announced the end of discussion time, and all returned to their seats. “Does anybody have anything they wish to say on this subject that has not been raised yet?” he asked.

A few magicians raised their hands. They were called to the floor. The first suggested that magicians should be subject to the same laws as ordinary Kyralians and there be no Guild rules at all. His proposal was met with a rumble of disagreement from all sides. The second magician declared that the rule should be changed, but his suggestion was that the rule should forbid magicians from involvement in or benefiting from criminal activity. This roused a thoughtful murmur. The last magician said only that the decision should be the king’s.

“The king knows and has acknowledged that Guild rules, as opposed to laws, are for the Guild to make,” Osen assured them all. He turned to the front. “Do any of the Higher Magicians have anything further to add?”

Nobody had suggested the simple change of removing “unsavoury characters” from the rule yet. Sonea drew in a deep breath and braced her feet, ready to rise.

“I do,” High Lord Balkan said. Sonea glanced at him, then relaxed. He stood up. “A small change can make a great difference. I propose that we change the wording of the rule, leaving out the reference to unsavoury characters, since it is ambiguous and open to unfair interpretation.”

Osen nodded. “Thank you.” He turned back to the hall. “Unless there is majority disagreement, we have four viable choices: abolish the rule in its entirety, leave it as it is, change it to remove reference to unsavoury characters, or change ‘associating with criminals and unsavoury characters’ to ‘involvement in and benefiting from criminal activity’. If we have a vote for change we will all vote again for our preference of the two choices. Form your globe lights now and move them into position.”

Concentrating a little power, Sonea created a globe of light and sent it up, with the small cloud of globe lights belonging to the Higher Magicians, to float near the Guildhall ceiling. Hundreds of other lights joined it. The effect was dazzling.

“Those in favour of abolition change your light to blue,” Osen ordered. “Those in favour of changing the rule make your light go green. Those favouring no change at all change to red.”

The dazzling whiteness shifted to a brilliant mix of colours. Sonea squinted at the globe lights. There aren’t many red ones. A few more blue than red. But there are clearly more green than any other colour. She felt her heart lift with hope.

“Now, those in favour of removing ‘unsavoury characters’ from the rule move your light to the front end of the hall, those in favour of changing it to forbid magicians from involvement in or benefiting from criminal activity move to the back.”

Balls of light surged in different directions. There was a long pause while Osen stared upward, his lips moving as he counted. Then he turned to the Higher Magicians.

“How many of each do you count?”

“Seventy-five to the back, sixty-nine to the front,” Lord Telano replied.

Sonea felt her breath catch in her throat. But that means...

Osen nodded. “My count agrees with Lord Telano’s.” He turned to face the hall. “The vote is cast. We will change the rule so that it forbids magicians to ‘be involved in or benefit from criminal activity’.”

Staring up at the globe lights, Sonea watched them flicker out of existence until one was left. Hers. She extinguished it, then looked down at Regin. His expression matched what she felt. Surprise. Perplexity. They chose an option introduced at the last moment, which changed the rule completely. Which both weakened and yet narrowed the focus of it. Magicians and novices can no longer be punished for indulging themselves in pleasure houses, because they’re no longer forbidden to associate with criminals. But at least they can’t be lured into criminal activity, which is what the rule was meant to prevent in the first place.

Regin looked up at her and raised his eyebrows slightly. She lifted her shoulders a little and let them drop. He looked away and she followed the direction of his gaze to Pendel. The young man was smiling and waving at his supporters.

It’s all the same to him, Sonea thought. He’s gained a better result than he was hoping for. But Regin looks worried now. Oh dear. I can’t believe I’m actually eager to meet with him again and find out what he thinks about this.

But she’d also never thought she’d ever consult and plot with him. I guess it’s the price you pay for getting involved in Guild politics. Suddenly you have to be civil to old enemies. Well, thankfully it’s all decided now. I don’t have to talk to Regin again if I don’t want to.

She looked down at him a second time. He definitely looked worried. She sighed.

I guess one more chat wouldn’t hurt.

Chapter 15
Late-Night Visitors

The room’s walls were round, like the inside of a sphere. Like the Dome at the Guild, Lorkin thought. Are we home already?

A large rock lay on the floor, at the lowest point of the curved surface. It was about the size of a small child curled up, but when he reached out to it he found it was small enough to fit into his palm. As he cupped it in his hand, it shrank rapidly, then vanished.

Oh, no! I found the storestone, but I’ve lost it again. I’ve destroyed it. When the Sachakans find out they’re going to be furious! They’ll kill me and Dannyl...

Yet the feeling of fear faded quickly. Instead he felt good. No, he felt very good. As if the sheets on his bed were moving across his skin, and getting rather personal in a nice way with parts of him that—

Suddenly he was wide awake.

And someone else was there, very, very close to him. Crouched on top of him. Smooth skin brushed against his. A pleasant scent filled his nostrils. The sound of breathing caressed his ear. He could see nothing. It was utterly dark in the room. But the sound of breathing was somehow recognisable as coming from a woman’s throat.

Tyvara!

He could feel that she was naked. And she now let her weight settle onto his body. He ought to be dismayed – to push her off – but instead a rush of interest went through him. She chose that moment to take advantage of his arousal and he gasped at the unexpected pleasure of her body and his locking together. Traitor, he admonished his body. I should stop her. But he didn’t. It’s not as if she isn’t willing, came another thought.

He thought briefly of the time they’d spent talking, and how he had grown to like the glimpses he’d seen of a smart, strong woman under the forced submissiveness. You like her, he assured himself. That makes it all right, doesn’t it? But it was getting harder to think. His thoughts kept dissolving under waves of sheer physical pleasure.

Her breathing and movements began to quicken and sensation intensified. He stopped trying to think and gave in. Then her body stiffened and she stopped moving. Her chest lifted away from his as she arched back. He smiled. Well, that proves that she is enjoying it, too. She gave a muffled cry.

Muffled?

Brilliant light suddenly dazzled his eyes. He squinted as his eyes adjusted, then realised two things.

There was a hand covering Tyvara’s mouth.

And it wasn’t Tyvara.

Another woman loomed over him and the stranger, and he recognised her with a jolt. This was Tyvara.

But her face was distorted by a savage scowl. She was straining to hold the stranger, who was still making muffled sounds and struggling. Something warm and wet dripped onto his chest. He looked down. It was red, and a trail of it was running down the stranger’s side.

Blood!

He felt cold all over, then horror filled him with strength and he pushed the stranger and Tyvara off him and scrambled away. The push caused Tyvara’s hand to slip from the stranger’s mouth and for her to nearly tumble off the end of the bed. As the stranger rolled onto her side, her eyes locked with Tyvara’s.

“You! But... he has to die. You...” Blood leaked from her mouth. She coughed and clutched at her side. Her expression filled with hatred even as she seemed to lose strength. “You are a traitor to your people,” she spat.

“I told you I would not let you kill him. You should have heeded my warning and left.”

The woman opened her mouth to reply, then tensed as a spasm locked her muscles. Tyvara grabbed the woman’s arm.

She’s dying, Lorkin realised. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can’t just let her die. He sent out magic and surrounded Tyvara, pushing her away, then leapt onto the bed and reached out to the dying woman.

And felt himself and his magic effortlessly countered by another force. It shattered the containment and rolled him off the end of the bed to land on the hard floor. He lay still, stunned. She has magic. Tyvara has magic. She isn’t what she is supposed to be. And... ouch!

“I’m sorry, Lord Lorkin.”

He looked up to see Tyvara standing over him. He glanced at the other slave, but she lay still with her back to him. He looked back at Tyvara. How strong is she? He eyed her doubtfully. Is she a Sachakan black magician? But they don’t teach women magic. Well, I suppose they might if they need a spy...

“That woman was about to kill you,” she told him.

He stared at her. “That wasn’t the impression I got.”

She smiled, but there was no humour in it. “Yes, she was. She was sent here to do it. You’re lucky I arrived in time to stop her.”

She’s mad, he thought. But she was also a magician of undetermined power. It would be safer to reason with her than try to call for help. And reasoning with her might be more convincing if he wasn’t half sitting, half lying on the floor with no clothes on.

Slowly he got to his feet. She made no move to stop him. He saw that the woman she had stabbed was staring up at the ceiling. Or beyond it. And not seeing anything at all – or ever again. He shuddered.

Backing up to the set of robes that the slaves had cleaned and left ready for him, hanging on the wall, he took the trousers. Blood had smeared across his chest. He wiped it off onto a cloth the slaves left each night, along with water and a bowl, so he could wash in the morning.

“I gather from your sceptical manner that you don’t know of Lover’s Death,” Tyvara said. “It’s a form of higher magic. When a man or woman reaches the peak of pleasure during lovemaking their natural protection against invasive magic falters, and they are vulnerable to being stripped of all power – and their life. Sachakan men know of Lover’s Death and are wary of it, but they don’t know how to do it. They used to, apparently, but lost the knowledge when they stopped teaching women magic.”

“You’re a woman,” Lorkin pointed out as he pulled his trousers on. “So how is it you know magic?”

She smiled. “Men stopped teaching women magic. Women, however, did not.”

“You know how to do this Lover’s Death thing, too?” His notebook and his mother’s blood ring lay on the table. He picked up the ring as he reached out to the overrobe, hoping she only saw the latter movement, and held it in his hand as he put on the overrobe. Then he picked up his notebook, slipped it into the internal pocket and dropped the ring in at the same time.

“Yes. Although it’s not my preferred method of assassination.” She looked at the stranger. Following her gaze, Lorkin considered the corpse. If Tyvara knows one method of higher magic there’s a good chance she knows others. And that she is much, much stronger than me.

“What are you, really? You’re obviously not a real slave.”

“I am a spy. I was sent here to protect you.”

“By who?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“But whoever it is, he or she wants me alive?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the dead woman. “You... you, er, killed her to save me.”

“Yes. If I hadn’t found her here with you, you would have been the corpse, not her.” She sighed. “I apologise. I made a mistake. I thought you were safe. After all, you told me you weren’t intending to bed any slaves. I should not have believed you.”

He felt his face heat. “I didn’t intend to.”

“You weren’t exactly trying to stop her.”

“It was dark. I thought she was...” He caught himself. Tyvara wasn’t the person he’d thought she was. She was a black magician, a spy, and admitted to having preferred methods of assassination. It might not be a good idea to let her think he found her attractive. And I’m not sure I do find the person she really is attractive, after all.

Her eyes were darker than ever. They narrowed. “You thought she was what?”

He looked away, then forced himself to meet her gaze. “Someone else. I hadn’t woken up properly. I thought I was dreaming.”

“You must have interesting and pleasant dreams,” she observed. “Now, grab your things.”

“Things?”

“Whatever you don’t want to leave behind.”

“I’m leaving?”

“Yes.” She looked at the dead woman again. “When the people who sent her realise she failed to kill you they’ll send someone else to finish the job. And they’ll send someone to kill me at the same time. It’s not safe here for either of us, and I need you alive.”

“And D—... Ambassador Dannyl?”

She smiled. “He’s not a target.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because he’s not the son of the man who crossed them.”

He froze in surprise. Was Mother right? She was so sure someone would hold a grudge against me because of what she and father had done.

She took a step toward the door. “Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

He did not move. Do I believe her? Do I have a choice? She knows black magic. She can probably force me to go with her. And if she wants me dead why would she save my life? Unless that was a lie, and she just killed an innocent slave in order to convince me of... something.

Then he remembered the look on the stranger’s face when she saw Tyvara. “But... he has to die,” she’d said. That confirmed that she’d wanted to kill him. “You are a traitor to your people!” she’d also said to Tyvara. Did “your people” mean the Sachakan people? Suddenly his mother’s concerns seemed much too real. At least Tyvara seems to want to keep me alive. If I stay here, who knows what will happen? Well, Tyvara believes someone else will try to kill me.

He was in trouble. But he remembered what he’d decided at the Hearing. Whatever trouble he got into, he had to get himself out of again. Weighing up the choices he had, he settled on what he hoped was the best one.

He glanced around the room. Did he need anything else? No. He already had his mother’s ring. He walked over to Tyvara.

“I have everything I need.”

She nodded and turned to the doorway, peering out into the corridor.

“So, who was it exactly that you said my father crossed?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes. “We don’t have time for me to explain.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“But I will, later.”

“I’m taking that as a promise,” he told her.

She frowned, placed a hand on her lips to indicate silence, then beckoned and quietly slipped out into the dark corridors of the Guild House.

Once Cery would have travelled familiar parts of the Thieves’ Road without a light. There had been little danger of encountering a knife in the dark, as only those who had the approval of the Thieves had used the network of passages under the city, and the truce between the Thieves prevented any but approved murders happening on the road.

Now there was no truce, and anyone who dared could travel the road. It had quickly become so dangerous that few did, which, ironically, made the deserted parts safer. And stories of oversized rodents and monsters kept all but the boldest from exploring.

But I still wouldn’t travel without a light, Cery thought as he approached a corner. His heart had been beating uncomfortably fast since they had entered the road. He would not relax again until they’d left it. Peering around the turn, he lifted the lamp and felt yet another wave of relief as he saw the tunnel ahead was unoccupied. Then he realised that what he’d assumed was the next turn was actually rubble filling the space. He sighed and turned back to Gol.

“Another blockage,” he said.

Gol’s eyebrows rose. “It wasn’t there last time.”

“No.” Cery looked up at the ceiling. He winced as he saw the crack where brickwork was separating. “Nobody does any maintenance any more. We’ll have to go around.”

They backtracked and Cery took a right-hand passage. Gol hesitated before following.

“Aren’t we... ?” the big man asked.

“Getting real close to the Slig City?” Cery finished. “Yes. We better be quiet.”

The Sligs had been a group of street urchins who’d found refuge in the underground passages after their area of slums had been lost to new roads and buildings. They’d settled underground, only coming up to steal food. Somehow they’d survived, grown up and bred in the darkness, and now they defended their territory with savage ferocity.

The Thief who operated in the area above Slig City had once tried to gain control of them. His corpse and those of his men had washed out of the sewers a few days later.

After that, people living above had begun leaving food out by known tunnel entrances in the hopes of keeping the Sligs’ favour.

At each tunnel entrance, Cery lifted his lamp and examined the brickwork. The Sligs always painted a symbol on the walls around the edges of their territory. Only when he and Gol had moved away from the underworld citizen’s domain again did he stop looking for signs of them. Unfortunately, he began to encounter cave-ins and signs of decay again. But soon they’d reached the old entrance to the passages under the Guild.

The entrance had been destroyed after the Ichani Invasion, but Cery had arranged for a new tunnel to be dug. As a precaution, he’d included false entrances and clever deceptions that would lead explorers away again. Cery paused to listen and look for any observers, then slipped through the correct one, Gol following.

“Good luck,” Gol said as he stopped beside the niche where he usually waited when Cery made one of his journeys to meet Sonea.

“You, too,” Cery replied. “Don’t talk to any strangers.”

The big man humphed and lifted his lamp up to examine the niche. Brushing away a few faren webs, he sat down on the shelf and yawned. Cery turned away and set off into the passages under the Guild Grounds.

Like much of the Thieves’ Road, these passages were in disrepair. They had never been in good condition anyway, except where High Lord Akkarin had made repairs. But the secretive magician hadn’t been able to source much in the way of building materials, since it would have aroused suspicion, and had mostly reused bricks from other parts of the maze to patch the walls. The underlying problems of damp and shifting soil had never been solved.

I’m sure the Guild would rather they were filled in. I’d fix them myself, but if the Guild discovered a Thief repairing their underground passages I don’t think they’d be too pleased. I doubt they’d accept the excuse that all I really want is to be able to meet up with Sonea now and then.

Cery’s heart was still beating quickly, but more from excitement than fear now. Sneaking into the Guild always gave him a childish thrill. Skirting dangerous areas or cave-ins made Cery’s path more complicated than it needed to be, but once he was under the University foundations things improved. The passage from the University to the Magicians’ Quarters was the most worrying, as it was the only underground route between the buildings. Its main function was as a sewer, with a maintenance shelf along one side of the ditch. But nobody had maintained it for years, he suspected. Water ran from cracks in the walls and seeped down through the domed ceiling.

One day there’ll be a cave-in, and they’re going to discover a rather fragrant downside to not servicing their sewer.

Once under the Quarters’ foundations, the passage widened a little. Numbers had been carved below rectangular holes in the ceiling. He found the one he was looking for, set his lamp down in a dry spot, then climbed up the wall into the opening.

This was the hardest part of the journey. The openings were at the base of some sort of unused chute system that connected to the roof of the building above. Clean air constantly flowed down them. He had two favourite theories: either it was a ventilation system to keep the sewer air from getting too poisonous, or it was a rubbish disposal system designed not to reek of the sewer below.

The interior was small, but thankfully dry. He climbed slowly, taking his time and resting often. One day I’m going to be too old to do this. Then I’ll have to walk in via the Guild Gates. Or Sonea will have to come see me.

Finally, he reached the wall behind her rooms. He’d removed a section of bricks long ago, exposing the wood panelling behind. He put his eye to the spy hole he’d drilled into the wood.

The room beyond was dark and empty. But that was the usual situation at this time of night. He carefully and quietly grasped the handles he’d attached to the back of a section of panelling, lifted and twisted.

The panelling squeaked a little as it came free. I should bring some wax next time to fix that, he thought. He stepped through the opening, then set the panelling back in place.

It was a matter of some pride and satisfaction to him that Sonea had never seen him enter this way. She insisted on not knowing how he entered or left her rooms. The less she knew, the better for the both of them. It was not mortally dangerous to come here, but the consequences wouldn’t be good for her if his visits were discovered, and that knowledge tempered the mischievous delight he felt at reaching her quarters unnoticed.

He made a few deliberate noises, knocking against furniture and stepping on a floorboard he knew creaked, then waited. But she did not emerge from the bedroom. Moving to the door, he opened it a crack. The bed was neat and unused. The room was empty.

Disappointment extinguished the lingering excitement of his journey. He sat down. She had never been absent before. I never considered she might not be here. What do I do now? Wait for her?

But if someone else returned with her it would be a bit awkward. He’d have no time to escape to the chute. And the chute was too uncomfortable a place to wait and watch for her.

Cursing under his breath, he stood up again and quietly searched her furniture. He found what he sought in a drawer: paper and a pen. Tearing a small corner from a sheet of paper, he drew a tiny picture of a ceryni, the rodent that was his namesake, and slipped it under the door to her bedroom.

Then he returned to the panelling and started the long journey home.

The slave that greeted Dannyl at the door of the Guild House was especially quick to abase himself. Too many exciting discoveries were hovering at the fore of Dannyl’s thoughts, however, and he did not register what the man said. On the way home from the palace, he had written in his notebook as much as he could of what the king had told him of Sachakan history, but even as he walked down the corridor he remembered something he’d forgotten.

I need to sit down and get it all onto paper. It’s going to be a long night, I suspect. I wonder if Achati could arrange a quiet night for me tomorrow... what’s this?

In the Master’s Room a sea of slaves covered the floor, their bodies fanning out from the doorway. The door slave had joined them. It was such a surreal sight he could not speak for a moment.

“Rise,” he ordered.

As one the group slowly got to its feet. He saw men and women he did not recognise. Some with robust clothing suited to outdoors work, others with what looked like food stains down their leather aprons.

“Why are you all here?” he asked.

The slaves exchanged glances, then their gazes locked on the door slave. The man hunched over as if their stares had weight.

“L-Lord Lorkin is... is... is...”

Dannyl felt his heart skip a beat, then start racing. Only something terrible warranted this amount of cowering.

“He is what? Dead?”

The man shook his head and relief rushed over Dannyl. “Then what?”

“G-gone.”

The man threw himself on the floor again, then the rest of the slaves followed suit. Irritated, Dannyl drew in a deep breath and made himself speak calmly.

“Gone where?”

“We don’t know,” the door slave said, his voice strangled. “But... he left... in his room.”

He left something in his room. Most likely a letter explaining why he’s gone. And for some reason the slaves think I’ll be angry. Has Lorkin taken it into his head to go home?

“Get up,” he ordered. “All of you. Go back to what you were doing. No. Wait.” The slaves had begun to scramble to their feet. I might need to question them. “Stay here. You,” he pointed to the door slave, “come with me.”

The man’s brown face went a pasty colour. He followed Dannyl silently through the Guild House to Lorkin’s rooms. Lamps had been lit around the main room, and one still burned in the bedroom.

“Lord Lorkin?” Dannyl called, not really expecting an answer. If Lorkin had told them he was leaving, he wasn’t likely to be here. Still, Dannyl walked across to the bedroom door and looked inside.

What he saw made his blood turn to ice.

A naked Sachakan woman lay there, twisted so that her head faced the ceiling but her back was turned toward him. Her eyes staring up at the ceiling blankly. The sheets about her were stained dark red. In places they still glistened wetly. He could see the wound in her back.

Spinning around, Dannyl fixed the door slave with a stern stare. “How did this happen?”

The man cringed. “I don’t know. Nobody knows. We heard noises. Voices. After they stopped we came to see.” His eyes slid to the corpse, then quickly away again.

Did Lorkin do this? Dannyl wanted to ask. But if the man says he doesn’t know what happened, he won’t know if Lorkin was responsible.

“Who is she?” Dannyl asked instead.

“Riva.”

“Is she one of the slaves of this house?”

“Y-yes.”

“Is anyone else missing?”

The man frowned, then his eyes widened. “Tyvara.”

“Another slave?”

“Yes. Like Riva. A serving slave.”

Dannyl considered the dead woman again. Had this Tyvara been involved in the murder somehow? Or had she suffered the same fate?

“Were Riva and Tyvara... friendly to each other?” Dannyl asked. “Has anyone seen them speaking?”

“I-I don’t know.” The man looked at the floor. “I will ask.”

“No,” Dannyl said. “Bring the slaves to me. Have them line up in the corridor outside and tell them not to speak.” The man hurried away. I suppose they’ve already had time to collude and think of good alibis or excuses. But they won’t be able to modify their story.

He would have to send a message to Ashaki Achati without delay. The slaves belonged to the king. Dannyl wasn’t sure if the murder of one of them would be of much concern. But Lorkin’s leaving was. Especially if he had been taken against his will. Especially if he’d murdered the slave.

Achati will no doubt question all the slaves himself. He’ll probably read their minds. It’s possible he’ll hide any information he doesn’t think I ought to hear. So I must find out everything I can before Achati arrives.

He straightened as a chill ran down his spine. Is it a coincidence that I was finally invited to the palace the night one of his slaves was murdered here?

Had Lorkin killed the slave? Surely not. But it certainly looked like it. Was it self-defence? I should check for evidence either way before the king’s men turn up. Moving into the room, he stared at the body. Aside from the wound, there was a line of red beaded blood along a shallow cut on her arm. Interesting. That looks like evidence of black magic. He forced himself to touch the skin of the woman’s thigh and search with his senses. Sure enough, the body had been drained of energy. Black magic had been used. The relief he felt was overwhelming. It can’t have been Lorkin.

Then why had Lorkin left? Was he a prisoner of a Sachakan black magician? Suddenly Dannyl felt ill.

When Sonea finds out... But would she have to yet? If he managed to track down Lorkin quickly there’d be no bad news to deliver, just a story with a happy ending. He hoped.

He had to find Lorkin, and fast. Sounds from the corridor told him the slaves had arrived for questioning. He sighed. It was going to be a long night. But not for the reasons he would have preferred.