The Ambassador's Mission

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