The Ambassador's Mission

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.