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.”
“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.
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
