The Ambassador's Mission

The man looked where Dannyl was pointing, and nodded.

“Probably. There are a few in this area.”

“How old are they?”

Achati shrugged. “Old.”

“Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Of course not.” Achati smiled. “I’ll signal to you if the others arrive.”

Finishing the pastry, Dannyl crossed the road and set off up the slope. The hill was steeper than it had looked from the carriage, and by the time Dannyl reached the first pile of boulders he was breathing hard. Examining the pile, he decided it was part of a wall. For a while he moved across the slope, finding more sections of wall and resting to catch his breath. When he had recovered he decided to see what this fortification surrounded, and headed uphill.

The vegetation grew thicker and taller the closer he got to the summit. He caught his sleeve on a prickly shrub, managing to tear the material, after which he gave such plants a wide berth. It was easy enough to dry cloth with magic, and even remove some stains, but mending tears was beyond him. It might be possible to re-join the fine threads somehow, but it would take time and concentration.

He realised with dismay that while he could see remnants of more walls ahead, they peeked out of a mass of tangled, prickly bushes. He created a magical shield so he could push past them. There was a flat section at the top, within the low walls that were all that was left of a building, but other than that there was nothing to see but weathered stones.

I’m not going to learn anything here, he decided. Not without digging all this up. He looked out over the fields below, noting the mountains in the distance. To the west dark clouds lurked, suggesting a break in the dry, sunny weather they’d enjoyed since leaving Arvice. He could not guess how long it would take for the rain to reach them. Leaving the building, he headed back to the road.

A little way down the slope the vegetation parted and he had a clear view of the carriage and road below. Achati was sitting in the narrow doorway of the vehicle. As Dannyl watched, the handsome slave called Varn knelt before the magician and held out his hands, palm upward. Something in Achati’s hand caught the light.

A knife.

Dannyl’s heart lurched and he stopped. Achati lifted the highly decorated blade that usually sat in its sheath at his side and lightly touched the slave’s wrists. He sheathed the knife and grasped the man’s wrists with both hands. Dannyl watched, his heart racing. After only a short pause, Achati let the slave go.

I guess this means Varn is Achati’s source slave, Dannyl thought. He realised his heart was not racing with fear. More like excitement. I just witnessed an ancient ritual of black magic. Magic had passed from slave to master. And it hadn’t involved anyone being slaughtered. It had been remarkably serene and dignified.

The young man did not stand up, but drew closer to his master. Instead of keeping his gaze lowered as he usually did, he looked up at Achati. Dannyl stared, fascinated by the man’s expression. If I’m not imagining things at this distance, I’d say it was adoring. He smiled to himself. I guess it would be easy to love a master that treated you well.

Then the slave smiled and stepped very close to Achati. The magician placed a hand on the young man’s cheek and shook his head. He leaned forward and kissed Varn on the lips. The slave moved away again, still smiling.

Dannyl realised several things at once. Firstly, that the next thing both of the men were likely to do was glance around themselves to see if anyone had seen them. He looked away so that they didn’t catch him watching them and continued down the slope. Secondly, that the slave didn’t just love his master – he loved his master. And thirdly, that the way Achati had caressed the young man’s face suggested there was more to his ownership of Varn than having a slave for pleasure.

Is this the only way it works here? he wondered. What of men of similar rank?

But he did not have time to consider it. As he broke free from the dense vegetation, he stopped to look down the road toward the west, and saw five men and a cart not far along it. They would reach the junction soon. Dannyl hurried down the hill and stopped on the road, beckoning as Achati saw him. The Sachakan rose to his feet and walked over to join him.

“Excellent timing, Ambassador Dannyl,” he said, squinting at the figures in the distance. “Did you find anything up there?”

“Lots of thorny plants,” Dannyl replied ruefully. “I’m afraid your friends are about to meet a shabby Kyralian.”

Achati looked down at Dannyl’s torn robe. “Ah, yes. Sachakan vegetation can be as prickly as its people. I’ll get Varn to mend it for you.”

Dannyl nodded in gratitude. “Thank you. Now, is there anything in particular I should say or do in greeting our new companions?”

Achati shook his head. “When in doubt, let me do the talking.”

The farm cart was big and moved slowly. It was piled high with bales of stock feed, its load strapped down securely with many ropes. Four gorin hauled it – the first Lorkin had seen of the big animals in Sachaka. The driver was a short, silent male slave who occupied the only seat on the vehicle.

The other three passengers rode in a cave within the bales. Gaps between the bales that formed the roof allowed some air to get into the narrow space, but the walls were tightly packed. Three small packs were stowed at one end, which Lorkin assumed were full of food and supplies for the journey into the mountains. Chari and Tyvara were sitting either side of him on a seat of bales running along the gap, which meant he had to turn his back on Chari to look at Tyvara, and vice versa.

Chari nudged his arm with her elbow. “More comfortable than walking, right?”

“Definitely. Was this your idea?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “No, we’ve been doing this for centuries. Got to move slaves about somehow.”

He frowned. “Won’t any Traitors seeing a cart like this suspect there’s someone travelling inside, then?”

Chari shrugged. “Yes, but unless they’ve got a good reason, they won’t approach us. Especially not during the day. Slaves don’t stop other estate’s carts. None of their business. If an Ashaki saw them doing it, they’d think it odd and investigate.” She frowned. “Keeping you hidden has the added benefit of preventing confrontations like the one you had with Rasha. I have the authority to stop Traitors like her – don’t worry, not all of us want you dead – but dealing with it would delay us. If other Traitors do suspect you’re in here, they’ll rightly assume it wouldn’t be without the knowledge of other Traitors. This is not something you could ever arrange on your own.”

“And let’s not forget the people searching for Lorkin,” Tyvara added. “Ambassador Dannyl and the king’s representative, Ashaki Achati.”

“Those two?” Chari waved a hand dismissively. “We’ve arranged for them to be sent off track, next time they go snooping around an estate.” She smiled. “They could ride past us and never know we’re here.” She looked up at the bales above them. “Though, it can get a bit stuffy on hot days. Good thing you two had a bath last night, eh?”

Lorkin nodded and looked down at himself. The last of the dye had washed off his skin. He patted the clean slave wrap. “Thank you for the new clothes, too.”

She looked at him and grimaced. “We’ll have you out of them and into proper clothes soon.”

“I never thought I’d say it, but I miss my Guild robes,” he lamented.

“Why didn’t you like them before?”

“Because every magician wears them. It gets a bit boring. The only change you get is when you graduate from a novice to a magician – unless you become one of the Higher Magicians, and most of them only wear a different colour sash.”

“A novice is a student, right? How long do they stay novices for?”

“All new entrants to the Guild are novices. They spend about five years in the University before they