The Ambassador's Mission

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