The Ambassador''s Mission

  “The Guild Record.” His eyes widened in understanding. “The Mad Apprentice did it!” Lorkin reached out and took the book, flicking to the final entries. “It is over,” he read. “When Alyk told me the news I dared not believe it, but an hour ago I climbed the stairs of the Lookout and saw the truth with my own eyes. It is true. Tagin is dead. Only he could have created such destruction in his final moments. His power was released and destroyed the city.”

  Dannyl sighed, shook his head, took the book off Lorkin and put it back on the pile. “Tagin had just defeated the Guild. He could not have had that much power left. Not enough to level a city.”

  “Perhaps you’re underestimating him, as the Guild of the time clearly did.”

  The young magician’s eyebrows rose expectantly. Dannyl almost smiled at the challenge. Lorkin had been an intelligent novice, willing to question all of his teachers.

  “Perhaps I am.” Dannyl looked down at the small pile of documents and books. “The Guild … well, it is as though they didn’t set out only to wipe out all knowledge of black magic, but also the embarrassing fact that a mere apprentice had nearly destroyed them. If it weren’t for Recordkeeper Gilken, we wouldn’t even have the books Akkarin found to tell us what happened.”

  Gilken had saved and buried information about black magic out of fear that the Guild would need it for the land’s defence one day. We had five hundred years of peace in which to forget about the stash, that we had ever used black magic at all, and that over the mountains our ancient enemy, Sachaka, still practised it. If Akkarin hadn’t found the stash – and learned black magic – we would now be dead or slaves.

  “The final pile,” Lorkin said. Dannyl saw that Lorkin was looking at a thick, leather-bound notebook at the end of the table.

  “Yes.” Dannyl picked it up. “It contains the stories I collected from those who witnessed the Ichani Invasion.”

  “Including my mother’s?”

  “Of course.”

  Lorkin nodded, then smiled wryly. “Well, that must be the one part of history you don’t need to do more research on.”

  “No,” Dannyl agreed.

  The young magician’s gaze moved across the piles of books, documents and records. “I’d like to read what you have. And … is there a way I can help with the research?”

  Dannyl regarded Lorkin in surprise. He would never have guessed that Sonea’s son had an interest in history. Perhaps the young man was bored and looking for something to put his mind to. He might lose interest quickly, especially once he realised that Dannyl had already exhausted all sources of information. There was little chance either of them would ever fill the gaps in history.

  If he loses interest, there will be no harm done. I can’t see why I shouldn’t let him give it a try.

  And a fresh eye, a different approach, might unveil new discoveries.

  And it would be good to have someone here in Kyralia familiar with the work Dannyl had done so far, if he decided to leave to pursue any new sources of information.

  Which might happen sooner rather than later.

  Since the Ichani Invasion, Sachaka and Kyralia had been watching each other closely. Fortunately, both sides were keen to avoid future conflicts. Both had sent an Ambassador and an assistant to the other country. No other magicians were allowed to cross the border, however.

  Dannyl had questioned the Guild Ambassadors sent to Sachaka over the years, asking them to seek out material for his book. They had provided some information, but they did not know what to look for, and what they sent had contained tantalising hints at uncensored records with a fresh perspective on historical events.

  The position of Ambassador became available every few years, but Dannyl hadn’t applied for it. Partly because he had been afraid to. The thought of entering a land of black magicians was daunting. He was used to taking for granted that he was one of the powerful people in his society. In Sachaka he would not only be weak and vulnerable, but by all accounts Sachakan higher magicians regarded magicians who did not know black magic with distaste, distrust or derision.

  They were growing used to the idea though, he’d been told. They treated Guild Ambassadors with more respect these days. They’d even protested when the most recent Ambassador had to return to Kyralia, due to problems with his family’s finances. They had actually grown to like him.

  Which left a gap open for a new Ambassador that Dannyl found too hard to resist. He had worked in the position before, in Elyne, so he felt confident that the Higher Magicians would consider him for the place. If it did not work out he could simply come home early – and he would not be the first to do so. While he was in Sachaka he could seek records that might fill in the gaps in his history of magic, and perhaps discover new magical histories.

  “Lord Dannyl?”

  Dannyl looked up at Lorkin, then smiled. “I’d be delighted to have a fellow magician help me in my research. When would you like to start?”

  “Would tomorrow be convenient?” Lorkin looked at the table. “I have a lot of reading to do, I suspect.”

  “Of course it is,” Dannyl replied. “Though … we should ask Tayend what he has planned. Let’s go talk to him now – and have that bottle of wine.”

  As he led the young magician to the guest room where Tayend usually relaxed during most evenings, Dannyl’s thoughts returned to Sachaka.

  I have run out of sources. I can think of nowhere else I might find the missing pieces of my history. The opportunity has come and I think I have the courage to take it.

  But the other reason he had never sought to visit Sachaka was that it meant leaving Tayend behind. The scholar would have to gain permission from the Elyne king to go to Sachaka, and it was unlikely he would be granted it. Partly this was because Tayend wasn’t well known or in favour in court, and hadn’t been so even before he’d moved to Kyralia to live with Dannyl. Partly it was because he was a “lad” – a man who preferred men over women. Sachakan society wasn’t as accepting of lads as Elyne society was. It was more like Kyralian society – such things were hidden and ignored. The Elyne king would not want to risk offending a land that could still easily defeat it by sending a man they would disapprove of into their midst.

  But what about me? Why do I think the Kyralian king or the Guild won’t reject my application for the same reason?

  The truth was, Tayend wasn’t as good as Dannyl at hiding what he was. Not long after settling in Imardin, the scholar had gathered a circle of friends around him. He’d been delighted to find there were as many lads in the Kyralian Houses as in the Elyne elite class, and they had enthusiastically embraced his Elyne habit of holding parties. They called themselves the Secret Club. Yet the club was not particularly secret. Plenty in Kyralian society knew of it, and many had expressed disapproval.

  Dannyl knew that his discomfort came from long years of hiding his nature. Maybe I’m a coward, or perhaps overly prudent, but I’d rather keep my personal life … well … personal. With Tayend I never got the choice. He never asked me how I wanted to live, or if I was comfortable with the whole of Kyralia knowing what we are.

  There was more to his resentment than that, however. Over the years, more and more of Tayend’s attention had gone to his friends. Though there were a few in the group whose company Dannyl enjoyed, most were spoilt higher-class brats. And sometimes Tayend was more like them than the young man Dannyl had travelled with all those years ago.

  Dannyl sighed. He did not want to travel with the man Tayend had become. He was a little afraid that being stuck with each other in another land would cause them to part permanently. He also could not help wondering if some time apart would make them appreciate each other’s company more.

  But while a few weeks’ or months’ separation might do us good, could we survive two years apart?

  As he entered the guest room and found that Tayend had already opened the bottle and drunk half the contents, he shook his head.

  If he was ever going to fill in the
gaps of this history of magic – this great work of his life – he could not sit around hoping that someone would send him the right record or document. He had to seek the answers for himself, even if it meant risking his life, or leaving Tayend behind.

  One thing I’m sure of. For all that there are sides of Tayend that I don’t like, I care enough about him to not want to risk his life. He’s going to want to come with me, and I’m going to refuse to take him.

  And Tayend was not going to be happy about it. Not happy at all.

  She hadn’t grown any taller since Cery had last seen her. Her dark hair had been cut badly, uneven where it barely touched her shoulders. Her fringe swept sharply to one side, covering one of her knife-slash straight brows. And her eyes … those eyes that had always made him weak since the first time he’d seen her. Large, dark and expressive.

  But at the moment all they expressed was a ruthless, unblinking determination as she bartered with a customer almost half again her height and weight. Cery couldn’t hear what was being said, but her confidence and defiance stirred a foolish pride.

  Anyi. My daughter, he thought. My only daughter. And now my only living child …

  Something wrenched inside him as memories of his sons’ broken bodies rushed in. He pushed them away, but the shock and fear lingered. He could not let the grief distract him, for his daughter’s sake as well as his own. For all he knew, someone was watching and waiting for a moment of weakness, ready to strike.

  “What should I do, Gol?” he murmured. They were in a private room on the top floor of a bolhouse, which overlooked the market his daughter’s stall belonged to.

  His bodyguard stirred, started to turn toward the window, then stopped himself. He looked at Cery, his gaze uncertain.

  “Don’t know. Seems to me there’s danger in talking to her and danger in not.”

  “And wasting time deciding is the same as deciding not to.”

  “Yes. How much do you trust Donia?”

  Cery considered Gol’s question. The owner of the bolhouse, who offered various “services” on the side, was an old childhood friend. Cery had helped her establish the place when her husband, Cery’s old friend Harrin, died of a fever five years ago. His men prevented gangs from extracting protection money from her. Even if she hadn’t had such a long connection with him, or she’d not been grateful for the help he’d given her, she owed him money and knew the ways of Thieves well enough to know you did not betray them without consequences.

  “Better than anyone else.”

  Gol gave a short laugh. “Which isn’t much.”

  “No, but I’ve already got her keeping an eye on Anyi, though she don’t know why. She hasn’t let me down.”

  “Then it won’t seem odd if you ask for the girl to be brought to a face-to-face, right?”

  “Not odd, but … she’d be curious.” Cery sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Gol straightened. “I’ll go sort things, and make sure no one’s listening.”

  Cery considered the man, then nodded. He glanced out of the window as his bodyguard headed toward the door and noticed a new customer had replaced the last. Anyi watched as the man ran a finger across the blade of one of her knives to test its edge. “And make sure her stall is watched while she’s here.”

  “Of course.”

  After some minutes had passed, four men emerged from the bolhouse and approached Anyi’s stall. Cery noted that the other stallholders pretended to pay no attention. One of the men spoke to Anyi. She shook her head and glared at him. When he reached out toward her arm she stepped back and, with lightning speed, produced a knife and pointed it at him. He raised his hands, palms outward.

  A long conversation followed. Anyi lowered the knife slowly, but did not put it away or stop glaring at him. A few times she glanced fleetingly toward the bolhouse. Finally, she raised her chin and, as he stepped back from her stall, strode past and toward the bolhouse, putting away her knife.

  Cery let out the breath he’d been holding, and realised his stomach was all unsettled and his heart was beating too fast. Suddenly he wished he’d managed to sleep last night. He wanted to be fully alert. Not to make any mistakes. Not to miss a moment of this one meeting with his daughter that he hoped he could afford to allow himself. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, and then she had still been a child. Now she was a young woman. Young men probably sought her attention and her bed …

  Let’s not think too much about that, he told himself.

  He heard voices and footsteps in the stairwell outside the room, coming closer. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the doorway. There was a moment of silence, then a familiar male voice said something encouraging, and a single pair of footsteps continued.

  As she peered around the doorway, Cery considered smiling, but knew that he would not be able to find enough genuine good humour for it to be convincing. He settled on returning her stare with what he hoped was a welcoming seriousness.

  She blinked, her eyes widened, then she scowled and strode into the room.

  “You!” she said. “I might’ve guessed it’d be you.”

  Her eyes were ablaze with anger and accusation. She stopped a few steps away. He did not flinch at her stare, though it stirred a familiar guilt.

  “Yes. Me,” he said. “Sit down. I need to talk to you.”

  “Well I don’t want to talk to you!” she declared and turned to leave.

  “As if you have any choice.”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. Slowly she turned to face him, crossing her arms.

  “What do you want?” she asked, then sighed dramatically. He almost smiled at that. The sullen resignation laced with contempt was what many a father endured from youngsters her age. But her resignation came more from the knowledge he was a Thief, not any respect for fatherly authority.

  “To warn you. Your life is … in even more danger than it usually is. There’s a good chance someone will try to kill you soon.”

  Her expression did not change. “Oh? Why is that?”

  He shrugged. “The mere unfortunate fact that you are my daughter.”

  “Well, I’ve survived that well enough so far.”

  “This is different. This is a lot … wilder.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Nobody uses that word any more.”

  “Then I am a nobody.” He frowned. “I am serious, Anyi. Do you think I’d risk our lives by meeting with you if I wasn’t sure not meeting could be worse?”

  All contempt and anger fled from her face, but left her with no expression he could read. Then she looked away.

  “Why are you so sure?”

  He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Because my wife and sons are dead. Pain swelled within him at the thought. I’m not sure I can say it aloud. He cast about, then took another deep breath.

  “Because, as of last night, you are my only living child,” he told her.

  Her eyes slowly widened as the news sank in. She swallowed and closed her eyes. For a moment she remained still, a crease between her brows, then she opened her eyes and fixed him with her stare again.

  “Have you told Sonea?”

  He frowned at the question. Why had she asked? Her mother had always been a touch jealous of Sonea, perhaps sensing that he had once been in love with the slum girl turned magician. Surely Anyi hadn’t inherited Vesta’s jealousy. Or did Anyi know more about Cery’s continuing and secret link to the Guild than she ought to?

  How to answer such a question? Should he answer at all? He considered changing the subject, but found himself curious to know how she would react to the truth.

  “I have,” he told her. Then he shrugged. “Along with other information.”

  Anyi nodded and said nothing, giving frustratingly little away of her reason for asking. She sighed and shifted her weight to one leg.

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  “Is there somewhere safe you can go? People you trust? I’d offer to pro
tect you except … well, let’s just say it turned out your mother made the right decision leaving me and …” He heard bitterness in his voice and shifted to other reasons. “My own people may have been turned. It would be better if you did not rely on them. Except Gol, of course. Though … it would be wise if we had a way of contacting each other.”

  She nodded and he was heartened to see her straighten with determination. “I’ll be fine,” she told him. “I have … friends.”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line. That was all she was going to tell him, he guessed. Wise move.

  “Good,” he said. He stood up. “Take care, Anyi.”

  She regarded him thoughtfully, and for a moment the corner of her mouth twitched. He felt a sudden rush of hope that she understood why he had kept away from her all these years.

  Then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room without waiting for permission or saying goodbye.

  CHAPTER 4

  NEW COMMITMENTS

  The trees and shrubs of the Guild gardens cooled and slowed the late summer wind to a pleasant breeze. Within one of the garden “rooms,” well shaded by a large ornamental pachi tree, Lorkin and Dekker sat on one of the seats arranged here and there for magicians to rest on. As the last shreds of his hangover began to ease, Lorkin leaned back against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. The sound of birds mingled with that of distant voices and footsteps – and the shrill sound of taunts and protests somewhere behind him.

  Dekker turned to look at the same time as Lorkin. Behind them was a screen of shrubs and trees, so they both stood up to peer over the top of the foliage. Over the other side, four boys had surrounded another and were pushing their victim about.

  “Stu-pid lo-wie,” they sang. “Got no fam-ly. Al-ways gri-my. Al-ways smel-ly.”

  “Hai!” Dekker shouted. “Stop that! Or I’ll get you volunteered to help in the hospices.”

  Lorkin grimaced. His mother had never been happy with Lady Vinara’s idea of punishing novices by making them help in the hospices. She said they’d never consider the work worthwhile or noble if they were expected to want to avoid it. But she never had enough volunteers, so she couldn’t bring herself to protest. Some of those sent to her for punishing had actually chosen the healing discipline because working with her had inspired them, but they were mocked quietly by their fellow novices.