The Ambassador's Mission

  “That would mean taking him to Sanctuary,” someone said.

  “The queen would never agree to it.”

  “Unless we hold the trial outside Sanctuary.”

  “No, that would be too dangerous. If there was an ambush we’d lose too many valuable people.”

  “Nobody is going to ambush us,” Savara said firmly.

  She looked back at her people and they fell silent. Turning back to Lorkin, she considered him thoughtfully. “It is an admirable thing you wish to do. I will think on it. How much does the Guild know about us?”

  Lorkin shook his head. “Nothing. Well, they’ve heard nothing from me, anyway. I haven’t communicated with anyone there.”

  “And what of the Guild magician here?” He has been following you since you left Arvice. With surprising accuracy.”

  “I haven’t communicated with Dannyl either,” Lorkin told her firmly. “But I’m not surprised he is searching successfully. He is clever and unlikely to give up.” He paused as he realised the truth of his words. Was Dannyl smart and determined enough to follow him all the way to Sanctuary?

  “He’s had plenty of help from Traitors, no doubt,” Tyvara muttered.

  Savara looked at her. “You have explained the likely price for entering the city?”

  Tyvara paused, then looked down. “No. I was hoping we’d find a way around that.”

  The Speaker frowned, then sighed and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Rest and eat.”

  With that, the group scattered, some moving into the huts, some sitting on rough, narrow wooden benches that Lorkin had assumed were a crude fence. He, Chari and Tyvara moved to one of the seats and shrugged out of their packs. A young woman dressed as a slave brought them small cakes laced with tart berries. She smiled when he thanked her.

  “Lorkin,” Tyvara said.

  He turned to her. “Yes?”

  “You should take up Savara’s offer. Go back to Kyralia.”

  “Not to Arvice?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t trust the … the other faction. They might try to kill you again.”

  “And how are you going to prove that they’ve tried it before?”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll let them read my mind.”

  He heard Chari draw in a sharp breath. “You can’t,” she hissed. “You promised the …” She looked at Lorkin, then bit her lip.

  Tyvara sighed. “We’ll find a way around it,” she told Chari. She turned to Lorkin. “The price Savara spoke of … if you come to Sanctuary there’s a good chance you won’t be allowed to leave again. Would you be willing to stay there for the rest of your life?”

  He stared at her in disbelief. The rest of his life? Never see Mother or Rothen or his friends again?

  “You haven’t told him this before?” Chari asked, her tone shocked and disbelieving.

  Tyvara flushed and looked away. “No. I couldn’t send him back to Arvice. Someone would have tried to kill him. I knew once I found someone from our faction he’d be safe.”

  “Faction?”

  “Lorkin came up with the term. I mean those of us who agree with the queen, and Savara, on … most things.”

  Chari nodded. “Not a bad term, really.” She looked at him. “We’ve been avoiding calling ourselves anything, because it would mean there was a split within the Traitors, and if we named the two sides it would only encourage people to, well, take sides.” She turned to Tyvara. “They might not want Lorkin to stay, since he is one of the reasons for the split.”

  “Nobody from the other side will trust him enough to let him go once he knows the city’s location. And few from our side will, either.”

  “Then we cover his eyes and make sure he can’t find it again.”

  Tyvara sighed. “We all know how well that worked last time.”

  “Last time it was a Sachakan, and he was a spy,” Chari pointed out. “Lorkin is different. And how is Sanctuary ever going to form alliances and trade with other nations if we never let visitors into and out of the city?”

  Tyvara opened her mouth, then closed it again. “It’s too soon for that,” she said. “We can’t even trust each other, let alone foreigners.”

  “Well, we have to start some time.” Chari sniffed and looked away. “You bring him all this way, and now you want him gone. I think you’re too scared of being responsible for someone.”

  Tyvara’s head snapped up and she glared at her friend. “That’s—” But she stopped herself. Her eyes narrowed. Rising, she stalked away, sitting down again several strides away. Chari sighed.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Lorkin. “She isn’t always this grumpy.” She looked at him and smiled. “I mean it. When she’s not worried silly, she’s smart, funny and quite lovable. And apparently quite good under the rug, as we say here.” She winked, then grew serious. “Though choosy. Not any and every man for our Tyvara. Don’t worry about that.”

  He gazed at her in surprise at this sudden and unexpected flow of personal information, then looked down and hoped his amusement and embarrassment weren’t obvious. So, here’s yet another way Traitor women are different to Kyralian women. He thought back to some of the women he’d taken to bed over the last year. Well, maybe not that different, but certainly more open about it.

  Though why Chari was trying to reassure him …

  Suddenly, he understood what Chari had been hinting at. She thought there was something romantic going on between him and Tyvara. His heart skipped a beat. Well, there has been, in a regretfully one-sided way. Since he’d first met Tyvara he’d found her alluring and attractive. The night he’d nearly been murdered he’d thought it was her in his bed, and the thought had pleased him a great deal.

  Chari seems to think it isn’t one-sided. Is she right?

  He stole a glance at Tyvara. She was standing again, staring in the direction she, Chari and he had arrived from, her brows knit with worry. He turned to see what she was looking at. Two women were running up the path. As they passed, Lorkin heard them panting with exertion.

  They disappeared into a hut and a moment of tense silence followed as all watched and waited, then Savara strode out followed by a handful of Traitors and the two women. She said something and the globe lights immediately dimmed to a faint glow.

  “We must all leave immediately,” she said. Her eyes skimmed over the assembled faces and settled on Lorkin. “The magicians tracking Lord Lorkin are heading this way, and there are now six of them, including the Kyralian. Divide yourselves into three groups. Each will take a different route away from here. Tyvara, Lorkin and Chari, you should come with me.”

  Lorkin rose and hurried over to her. “If I talk with Ambassador Dannyl I am sure I can persuade him to call off the search.”

  She shook her head. “You may persuade him, but you won’t persuade the others if they think they might catch us this time. There is also a man with them – a tracker – who might succeed where others have failed.” She smiled grimly. “I am sorry. The offer is appreciated, but it is too great a risk.”

  Lorkin nodded. Around him people were hastily picking up and packing away all signs of their presence. One began to sweep the ground, but Savara stopped her.

  “There’s no point hiding all trace of ourselves. We want them to either split up or follow the wrong trail.” She looked Lorkin up and down. “Find someone with similar sized feet as his and get them to swap shoes.”

  Soon the Traitors had formed three groups of near equal size. Savara ordered them to travel without hiding their trail until morning, then head for Sanctuary using the usual precautions. All murmured farewells to the other groups, then departed. Lorkin followed as Savara’s group began to climb the steep side of the valley, his mind shifting between wondering if his suspicions about Tyvara were true, itching to know what Savara’s decision would be, and worrying that Dannyl and the Sachakans would catch up with them.

  And if they did, what would the Sachakans do? What would the Traitors do? Wou
ld it end in a fight? He didn’t want anyone dying because of him. Well, anyone else, he amended.

  If it came to a fight, what should he do? Would he have to choose between joining Dannyl in order to prevent a battle and siding with the Traitors so he could help save Tyvara from execution?

  Too slow, Cery’s twist did not bring him out of the way far enough or fast enough to avoid the knife pushing into his ribs. He heard Anyi give a little huff of triumph.

  “Good,” he said, resisting a smile as he let go of her and stepped away. “You’ve got the hang of it now.”

  She grinned and swapped the wooden practice knife back to her left hand.

  “Though you aimed a little high,” he told her. “You’re used to practising with Gol, I suppose.”

  “I’d have still cut you,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but your knife might have caught on my ribs.” Cery patted his lower chest where her knife had pressed. “Which is not one of the five weak spots. Eyes, throat, belly, groin, knees.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to smash an attacker’s knees and run than try to stab him in the heart,” Gol said. “The heart can be hard to reach. Ribs might skew your aim. If you miss, he can come after you. If you get his knees, he can’t. And he mightn’t be expecting it.”

  “A stab to the guts will kill slowly, too,” Cery said. “Not much fun, but enough time to try and get you back for it.”

  “And you shouldn’t kill unless ordered to,” Gol added.

  “I should get you practising with shorter people.”

  “And younger ones,” Anyi said. Gol gave a snort, and she turned to him. “Come on. You’re both not as fast as you used to be, and if anyone’s gonna send somebody after you they’re not going to get some old assassin out of retirement to give you a sporting chance.”

  Gol chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

  A tapping came from the door and they all turned to face it. They were in one of the upper-storey rooms of a bolhouse Cery owned, known as the Grinder. It was a place where he could meet the people of his territory who had requested an audience. Business had to be maintained, and that meant making himself available now and then. As with all his places, there were plenty of escape routes.

  Cery nodded to Gol, who strode over to open the door. The big man paused, then stepped aside. In the entrance stood a squat, solid man, who had worked for Cery for years.

  “A messenger’s here to speak to you,” he said. “From Skellin.”

  Cery nodded. “Send him in.”

  Gol took up a position to the left of Cery, arms crossed in his typical protective pose. Anyi’s eyes narrowed, then she walked past Cery to stand at his right. As he looked at her, she stared back defiantly, daring him to challenge her. He smothered a laugh.

  “Did I say the lesson was over?” he asked, looking from her to Gol. His bodyguard blinked, then looked at Anyi. “Get back to work,” Cery ordered.

  He watched them walk back to where they had been practising. Gol said something, to which Anyi shrugged, then dropped into a fighting crouch. Good, Cery thought. If Skellin’s messenger reports that I have a new, female bodyguard, I may as well have him report on her skills as well. I can’t hide her forever. If anyone picks that I’m keeping someone hidden they’ll assume there’s a reason and start asking questions.

  Still, his skin pricked as a figure moved into the doorway. It was one thing to know one’s loved ones were in danger because of who you were, but quite another to actually put them in a position that involved no small amount of risk.

  Skellin’s messenger was lean and tall, with the constant tense poise of a runner. His eyes met Cery’s and he nodded politely. Then his gaze snapped to Gol and Anyi, the latter having just launched herself in an attack. Gol countered it deftly, but she darted gracefully out of his reach.

  As Cery had expected, a spark of interest lit the messenger’s gaze, but there was more than just professional assessment in his expression. Suddenly Cery regretted having Anyi and Gol return to practising. It took a great effort to keep his face composed and posture relaxed.

  “You have a message for me?” he asked.

  “You are Cery of Northside?” the man asked, though his voice held no doubt. It was a formality.

  “Yes.”

  “Skellin said to tell you that he has found the quarry and is setting a trap. If you bring your friends to the old butchery in Inner Westside when the sun sets tonight, they can take possession of their new pet.”

  Cery nodded. “Thank you. We’ll be there. You may go.”

  The man gave a slight bow, then left. Gol walked over to the door and closed it, before turning to regard Cery soberly. “You’ve only got a few hours.”

  “I know.” Cery frowned. “And my friend won’t be at her place of employment yet.”

  “They’ll send a message on to the Guild.”

  “The Guild?” Anyi repeated. She gave Cery a hard look. “What is going on? Is this the thing you couldn’t tell me about yet?”

  Cery and Gol exchanged a look. The bodyguard nodded once.

  They’d discussed since the meeting with Skellin when to tell Anyi the whole story. If they told her about the rogue – and in particular that they suspected she was the Thief Hunter and the killer of his family – she’d want to come along and see the woman captured. If he ordered her to stay behind she would probably disobey him, figuring she’d wear whatever punishment he gave her for it. Assuming he discovered she had disobeyed him.

  It wasn’t that she made a habit of defying him, but with something this big she’d make an exception. He would too, in her place.

  He could, instead, simply not tell her about the rogue, but there was still a good chance she’d slip away and follow him just to find out. Again, it was what he would have done.

  So he and Gol had decided their only choice was to involve her in the capture by giving her a relatively safe job to do. Once again she would be one of his shadow guards. This time she would have to know the nature of the quarry they were chasing. There would be no rushing in to fight this enemy if things went wrong. Fighting magicians with knives was pointless and suicidal.

  “Yes, the Guild. It is time you knew what we’re dealing with,” Cery told her. “There are three things you will learn from tonight: even the most powerful Thief has limitations, it pays to have friends in high places, and there are some things best left to magicians.”

  There was a long pause between when Sonea knocked on the door of Administrator Osen’s office to when it finally swung open. Osen’s gaze was slightly distracted as he ushered them in.

  “Black Magician Sonea, Lord Rothen,” he said hesitantly. “I’ve called you here because Ambassador Dannyl and the Sachakans who have volunteered to help him are close to catching Lord Lorkin and his abductors.”

  Sonea’s heart stopped, then lurched into a racing beat. She opened her mouth to ask him … what? What to ask first? Where was Lorkin? Did the Sachakans understand that they weren’t to kill him?

  “How long until they do?” Rothen asked.

  “Dannyl can’t say exactly. Half an hour. Maybe less. You had better make yourselves comfortable.”

  Osen sat down behind his desk, and she and Rothen used magic to move two of the room’s armchairs to the front. Osen’s gaze slid to the distance.

  He is linked to Dannyl by a blood ring, she guessed. What can he see? She wanted to demand that he describe everything he saw in detail, but instead took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “You said ‘abductors’,” she pointed out. “Is there more than one?”

  Osen paused and his gaze shifted to somewhere far beyond the office walls.

  “Yes. Several Traitors. Unh thinks eight.”

  “Unh?”

  The Administrator’s gaze focused on her with difficulty. “A Duna tribesman. He’s tracking for them. Apparently he’s quite good at it. Wait …” His expression shifted and became eager. “They got a look at them. Just a glimpse …”
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  He was silent, staring at the desk without seeing it for a painfully long moment. Sonea realised she was gripping the arms of her chair. She forced herself to let go and folded her hands in her lap instead.

  “Ah.” Osen’s shoulders dropped with disappointment.

  “What?” Rothen asked. Sonea glanced at him. He was leaning forward, his eyes wide.

  Osen shook his head. “He’s not there. Not in that group. They’re following the wrong trail – wrong people.” He sucked in a breath, held it, then sighed. “There were three trails, apparently. They thought he was with one of them, but they were wrong. They’re going to have to go back and try another trail.”

  Sonea let out a sigh of frustration. Rothen groaned and leaned against the back of his chair. Silence filled the room. Nobody spoke. Osen’s gaze had shifted to the distance again. Rothen was rubbing his forehead.

  Then all jumped at a loud knock at the door.

  Osen waved a hand. The door opened and a Healer stepped inside. The young man looked at Sonea, smiled and hurried toward her, holding out a slip of paper.

  “Forgive the interruption, Administrator,” he said. “I have an urgent message for Black Magician Sonea.”

  She took the paper from him and nodded in reply as he bent into a shallow bow. He hurried from the room. When the door closed she looked down at the note, then unfolded it.

  Your friend in the city says his friend has found the thing you’re after. You have to be at the old butcher’s building in Inner Westside by sunset. Bring your other friend.

  If she’d been in a better mood she would have laughed at the vague and rather silly language. But this was the last thing she needed. How could she race off into the city to catch the rogue when Lorkin could be found at any moment?

  A hand passed before her eyes and plucked the message from her. Her heart skipped, but it was only Rothen. He scanned the note, looked at her and narrowed his eyes in thought.

  “How long until they backtrack to where the trail split?”

  “A few hours,” Osen intoned, his gaze still fixed on far-away things.