The Ambassador's Mission

CHAPTER 19

IN HIDING



As Gol had warned, the area of the city the rogue lived in was surprisingly respectable, and not the sort where anyone could loiter and remain inconspicuous. She rented the basement of a shoemaker’s shop and home. All of the street’s buildings had a shop at ground level and accommodation for the shopkeeper upstairs.

Cery had sent some of his people out to visit local shops to see if he could watch for the woman from within one of them. One reported overhearing a shopkeeper say his neighbour was away visiting his wife’s family in Elyne, and a few picked locks later Cery was sitting in the absent shopkeeper’s first floor guest room, relaxing in a comfortable chair next to the street side window, watching night fall and lamp-lighters setting the street aglow with light.

He’d also sent people to watch the rear entrance to the shoemaker’s home. The basement was accessible not just via the shop above it but through a sunken back door. Regular reports assured him that she hadn’t left.

Gol was taking longer than he ought to, though. Did I misunderstand Sonea’s message? She said she would be dealing with “the matter” and that I should send information to the hospice. Well, I’ve done that.

A door opened downstairs and he tensed. The footsteps of two or three people thumped up the staircase. Were they his people, or the shopkeeper and his family returning? He moved quickly, concealing himself behind the open door where he could hopefully slip out of the room unnoticed if he needed to. In case they should notice him, he slipped a hand into his coat to where he kept his most visually impressive knife.

“Cery?” a familiar voice called.

Gol. Letting out a sigh of relief, Cery stepped out from behind the door to find his bodyguard and two people wearing long concealing cloaks nearing the top of the stairs. He recognised Sonea. Cery narrowed his eyes at the other man. There was something familiar about him. As the trio came into the light, Cery felt an old memory spring to life.

“Regin,” he said. “Or is that Lord Regin now?”

“It is,” the man replied.

“It always was, Cery,” Sonea reminded him. “But calling novices ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady’ always feels a bit premature. Lord Regin and Lord Rothen have volunteered to assist me in catching the rogue, which could prove vital if I am unable to sneak away unnoticed from the hospice at some point.”

“If luck is with us, you won’t have to slip away again,” Cery told her. “So is Lord Rothen coming?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t see the point, if I was going.”

Cery watched Regin follow Sonea into the room. From what I remember, Sonea didn’t like this man much when she was a novice. He made things bad for her. But when Cery had met Regin during the Ichani Invasion, the young man had volunteered to be the bait that drew a Sachakan magician into Sonea and Akkarin’s trap. It had been a brave move. Had the timing been wrong – and it nearly had been from what Cery recalled – Regin would have had all magic and life drained from him.

If he hadn’t known better, Cery would never have believed the man he was examining had been the prank-playing, mischief-making novice Sonea had complained about. Lord Regin’s face appeared set into a permanent expression of seriousness. Though his build had the healthy weight of someone who’d lived a privileged life, the lines between his brows and around his mouth spoke of worry and resignation. But there’s intelligence in those eyes, he noted. He’s no less dangerous than he was as a novice, I’d wager. Still, Sonea trusts him enough to recruit him for this. Then he looked at her and saw the wariness in her posture as she glanced at her magician helper. Or maybe she has no choice. I’d better ask her about him, as soon as I have a chance to chat to her alone.

“So where is our rogue?” Sonea asked.

Cery moved to the window. “In the basement of the shoemaker across the street.”

She peered outside. “How many entrances?”

“Two. Both watched.”

“We should split into two groups then. One magician in each.”

Cery nodded in agreement. “I’ll go with you in through the front door. Gol can take Regin around to the back. We’ll meet in the basement, where you’ll do whatever it is you do.” He looked at the others. They nodded. “Any questions?” Glances were exchanged, then heads shook. “Let’s go then.”

They filed back down the stairs. Cery explained and demonstrated a few signals that he and Gol would use as warnings or to signal a retreat, then they stepped outside. It was full night now. The lamps cast circles of light on the ground. Gol led Regin away toward the back entrance. Cery and Sonea waited to give them time to get into place, then walked across the road to the shoemaker’s shop.

Climbing the steps, they approached the front door. Cery produced an oil dripper and quickly smeared the door hinges. Then he drew picks from within his coat. Sonea said nothing, her face in shadow, as he worked the lock open. I guess she could do this with magic – possibly faster than I can. So why don’t I suggest it? Am I showing off?

The lock clicked softly. Cery slowly turned the handle, bracing as the latch sprung free. He pulled the door open, relieved when it made only a soft groan. Sonea stepped inside, then waited as he closed the door behind them.

It was dark in the shop and as his eyes adjusted he was able to make out rows of shoes lined up on shelving, and a work table. Opposite the door was a narrow staircase leading down, and another leading up. According to his spies, the shoemaker was asleep upstairs. And about to get a rude wake-up.

Sonea moved to the stairs and looked at the treads leading down. She shook her head, then beckoned to Cery. As he approached, she grabbed his arm and pulled him close. Staring at her in surprise, he realised that in the dim light she looked like the young woman he’d once helped hide from the Guild so many years ago. She wore the same intent, worried expression.

Then he felt himself rising in the air and all thought of the past fled from his mind. He looked down. Though he could feel something beneath his feet, he couldn’t see it. Whatever it was, it was carrying him and Sonea down the staircase.

I guess this means there’s no risk of creaking treads betraying us.

A sparsely furnished room appeared as they neared the floor of the basement. Dazzling light filled the space as a glowing ball appeared above Sonea’s head. Cery looked for the bed, found it, then felt a surge of disappointment. It was unoccupied.

A door opened and they both spun about, then sighed as they saw Regin and Gol enter the room. Both frowned as they saw the rogue was nowhere in sight.

“Search,” Sonea said. “But carefully.”

They each chose a wall, examining the furniture, looking under the bed, opening cupboards.

“This room isn’t being used,” Regin observed. “The clothes in this cupboard are dusty.”

Cery nodded and nudged a basin with soiled cups, bowls and cutlery in it. “And these dishes have been dirty for so long they’re mouldy.”

“Aha!” Gol exclaimed quietly. All turned to see him gesturing at the wall. A section of bricks sat at an angle to the rest, swivelling aside as he pressed on one end. Behind was a dark space. Cery crossed to it and sniffed at the air inside.

“The Thieves’ Road,” he said. “Or a passage to it.”

Sonea chuckled. “Not two entrances after all. I’m surprised you didn’t check for subterranean ones.”

Cery shrugged. “It’s a new street. When the king demolishes the old ones, he makes sure the Road goes too.”

“He wasn’t thorough enough this time,” she said. Coming closer, she ran a hand over the brickwork. “Or perhaps he was. This is new – hardly any dust or cobwebs on it. Should we see where it leads?”

“If you want to explore, go ahead,” Cery told her. “But this isn’t my territory. I can’t enter without permission. If I trespass,” he shrugged, “the Thief Hunter will have one less Thief to do in.”

“Does this passage suggest our rogue is working with the local Thief?” Regin asked.

Sonea looked at Cery. “If she is the Thief Hunter, then I doubt it. But if she’s not, then she’d have skills a Thief would find very useful.”

In other words, she thinks this proves that the rogue isn’t the Thief Hunter, Cery thought.

Regin peered into the tunnel, his expression intent. He looked as if he might move inside, but then he stepped back and straightened.

“I suspect she’s long gone. What do you recommend we do next, Cery?” he asked.

Cery glanced at the magician in surprise. A magician asking him his opinion was not something that happened often. “I agree that you’re unlikely to find her in the tunnels.” He reached out and turned the bricks back into place. “If she doesn’t notice that we invaded her room she might continue using it to access the tunnels. We should make sure everything is exactly how we found it. I’ll put a watch on this place and let you know if she returns.”

“And if she does notice?” Regin asked.

“Then we’ll have to hope another bit of luck leads us to her again.”

Regin nodded, then looked at Sonea. She shrugged. “Not much else we can do for now. If anyone can find her again, Cery will.”

Cery felt a flush of pleasure, followed by a niggling anxiety that she might be wrong. He had spotted the rogue by chance. It might not be so easy to find her again. The four of them moved around the room quickly, making sure everything was in order, then left the way they had come. Sonea relocked the front door with magic. They slipped out the back way. Once in the main street again, they exchanged glances but remained silent. The two magicians raised hands in farewell before they walked away. Cery and Gol returned to the empty shopkeeper’s house.

“Well, that was disappointing,” Gol said.

“Yes,” Cery agreed.

“Do you think the rogue will come back?”

“No. She’ll have had something set up to tell her if anyone came visiting.”

“So what do we do next?”

“Watch and hope I’m wrong.” He looked around the room. “And find out when the owner of this place is due back. We don’t want to scare him and his family half to death at finding a Thief in his house.”

The slave master looked surprised to see Dannyl and Ashaki Achati, before he threw himself to the ground at their feet. His surprise was not because a powerful Sachakan and Kyralian magician had come visiting. The estate had been expecting them, or someone, to arrive.

“You came faster than we hoped,” the big man said when Achati explained that they were looking for an escaped female slave and a Kyralian man dressed as a slave.

“You have seen the pair I described?” Achati asked.

“Yes. Two nights ago. One of the slaves thought they were people we’d been warned about, and when we came to question them they had run away.”

“Did you search for them?”

“No.” The man bowed his head. “We were warned they were magicians, and that only magicians could catch them.”

“Who gave you this warning?”

“The master, in a message.”

“When did the message arrive?”

“A day before the pair arrived here.”

Achati glanced at Dannyl, his eyebrows raised in disbelief. So if Ashaki Tikako didn’t send the message, who did? Dannyl felt his heart skip a beat. The Traitors. They must be very organised to get messages like this out to the country estates so quickly.

“How long ago did you send your message warning your master of their appearance here?”

“Two nights ago – straight after they disappeared.”

Achati turned to Dannyl. “If he is on his way he won’t arrive for another day, even if he rides rather than taking a carriage. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait. I don’t have the authority to read the minds of another man’s slaves.”

“Do you have the authority to question them?” Dannyl asked.

The magician frowned. “There is no custom or law preventing me. Or you.”

“Then let’s question them.”

Achati smiled. “We’ll do it your way? Why not?” He chuckled. “If you do not mind, I would like to watch and learn from you. I would not know what questions to ask that might trick a slave into revealing more than he or she wanted to.”

“There really isn’t any trickery involved,” Dannyl assured him.

“Which do you want to question first?”

“This man, and anyone who saw Lorkin and Tyvara. And most of all, the slave who saw them and thought they might be the people they’d been warned about.” Dannyl drew out his notebook and looked at the slave master. “And I need a room – nothing fancy – where I can question them alone without others overhearing.”

The man looked from Dannyl to Achati uncertainly.

“Arrange it,” Achati ordered. As the man hurried away, the Sachakan magician turned to smile crookedly at Dannyl. “You really must learn to phrase your requests as orders, Ambassador Dannyl.”

“You have the greater authority here,” Dannyl replied. “And I am a foreigner. It would be rude of me to assume I could take control.”

Achati looked at him thoughtfully, then shrugged. “I suppose you are right.”

The slave master returned and then led them into the building to a small room that smelled of grain. The floor was covered in a fine dust patterned with the sweeping grooves of a broom. Particles hung in the beams of sunlight streaming in from a high window. Two chairs had been placed under the window.

“Well, it’s definitely not fancy,” Achati said, not hiding his amusement.

“Where would you suggest we question them?” Dannyl asked.

Achati sighed. “I guess it would be presumptuous if we’d questioned them in the Master’s Room, and guest rooms would have made it obvious we aren’t in charge here. No, I suppose this is an appropriate setting.” He moved to one of the chairs and sat down.

Dannyl took the other seat, then ordered the slave master to enter. The man related how two slaves had arrived with an empty cart, the male apparently new but lacking in muscle for a delivery slave, and the woman there to show him the route. While they’d loaded the cart one of the kitchen slaves had suggested to him that the pair might be the people they’d been warned to watch out for. She suggested drugging their food, as they would be less dangerous asleep.

At the mention of drugged food, Dannyl had to hide his dismay. Fortunately Lorkin and Tyvara hadn’t fallen for the trap. They’d slipped away.

He then questioned the woman who had suspected the pair weren’t who they said they were. As she entered the room, Dannyl noted that her gaze was sharp, though she gave him only one quick look before bowing her head and prostrating herself. He told her to get up, and she kept her gaze lowered.

Her explanation matched the slave master’s, including the contents of the message warning of two dangerous magicians posing as slaves.

“What made you think they were the people you’d been warned about?” Dannyl asked her.

“They were as described. A tall man with pale skin and a shorter Sachakan female.”

Pale skin? Dannyl frowned. The slave master didn’t mention Lorkin’s skin, and surely it would have been unusual enough for the man to notice. Wait … didn’t the woman I healed at Tikako’s home say Lorkin’s skin had been dyed?

Had the dye worn off, or was this woman feeding him the information she thought he expected?

“Tall, short, male, female – none of these things would make them stand out from other slaves surely. What made you notice they were different?”

The woman’s gaze, fixed on the floor, flickered. “The way they moved and talked. Like they weren’t used to following orders.”

So not the pale skin. Dannyl paused, writing down her answer as he considered what to ask next. Perhaps it was time to be more direct.

“A slave I spoke to a few days ago thought the woman was a Traitor and that they mean to kill the man she has abducted. Do you think it likely they will kill him?”

The woman was very still as she answered.

“No.”

“Do you know of the Traitors?”

“Yes. Every slave does.”

“Why do you believe it is unlikely the Traitors intend to kill the man?”

“Because if they wanted him dead they would have killed him, not abducted him.”

“What do you think they intend to do with him then?”

She shook her head. “I am only a slave. I do not know.”

“What do other slaves think the Traitors will do with him?”

She paused and her head lifted slightly before bowing again, as if she resisted the urge to look at him.

“I’ve heard some say,” she said slowly. “That the woman is a murderer. That the Traitors want you to find them.”

Dannyl felt a chill. Tyvara had killed a slave. What if that slave had been the Traitor, not Tyvara?

“Who said this?” he asked.

“I … I can’t remember.”

“Are there any slaves who are more likely to say this sort of thing than others?”

She paused then shook her head. “All slaves gossip.”

After a few more questions, he knew he would not get anything more out of her. She’d said all she wanted to say, and if she was withholding information he would not get it out of her voluntarily. He sent her away.

I’d wager she does know more. And then there’s the description of Lorkin’s pale skin. She wanted me to be sure Lorkin was here. Which makes sense if this rumour that the Traitors want me to find Tyvara and Lorkin is true.

But it could be a decoy. Still, the slave he’d helped at Tikako’s home had spoken the truth. Tyvara and Lorkin had come to his country estate.

What if the Traitors did want him to find the pair? Then they’ll make sure we find them. Though I can’t imagine Tyvara will let us capture her without a fight. And we’ll have to be prepared for any reaction from Lorkin. It’s possible she’s convinced him to accompany her – perhaps even seduced him – and he’ll resist being rescued.

He wanted to believe Lorkin was more sensible than that, but he had heard the gossip in the Guild that the young man had a weakness for pretty, smart women. Being the son of Black Magician Sonea and the late High Lord Akkarin didn’t mean the young man had any of his parents’ wisdom, either. Those characteristics could only come with experience. With making mistakes and choices, and learning from the consequences.

I just hope this isn’t a serious mistake, and that the consequences are the kind he can learn from, not ones that will lead to me spending the rest of my life in Sachaka for fear of what Sonea might do to me if I ever return to the Guild.


Lorkin would have thought that a male and female slave walking along a country road in the middle of the night would raise suspicion, but the few slaves they had passed had barely glanced at them. A carriage had overtaken them once, and Tyvara had hissed something about it probably containing a magician or Ashaki, but all she’d had him do was scamper off the road and keep his gaze lowered.

“If anyone asks, we’ve been sent out to work at Ashaki Catika’s estate,” she’d told him. “We’re both house slaves. We’re travelling at night because he wants us there by tomorrow evening and that means walking night and day.”

“Ashaki Catika is known for that sort of cruelty?”

“All Sachakan magicians are.”

“Surely there are one or two good magicians.”

“There are some who treat their slaves better than others, but ultimately enslaving another person is cruel, so I wouldn’t call any of them good. If they were good, they’d free their slaves and pay those willing to stay and work for them.” She glanced at him. “As Kyralians do.”

“Not all Kyralians are kind to their servants,” Lorkin told her.

“At least those servants can leave and find a new employer.”

“They can, but it is not as easy as it sounds. Servant positions are in high demand and a servant who quits may find it hard to get work elsewhere. Households tend to hire servants from the same family over servants they don’t know. Of course, a servant can try other work, like a trade, but they will be competing with families who have practised that trade for generations.”

“Do you think slavery is better then?”

“No. Definitely not. I am only saying the alternative isn’t easier. How well do Traitors treat their servants?”

“We are all servants. Just as we are all Traitors,” Tyvara explained. “The term isn’t like ‘Ashaki’ or ‘Lord’. It is a word for a people.”

“But not a race?”

“No. We are Sachakans, though we don’t often call ourselves that.”

“So even magicians do the tasks of servants? They clean and cook?”

“Yes and no.” She grimaced then. “At first that was how it was supposed to be. We would all do the same work. A Traitor might clean dirty dishes one moment and then vote on important decisions, like which crops to plant, the next. But it didn’t work. Some bad decisions were made because people who were not smart or educated enough to understand the consequences chose badly.

“We started a range of tests designed to find out what a person’s talent was and to develop it, so the best person would end up taking on the tasks that required their skills. Though that meant we weren’t all doing the same things any more, it was still better than slavery. So long as the tasks required for maintaining our home and feeding our people were met, nobody was forced to do a certain job, or prevented from doing something they were talented at, because of their family status or class.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Lorkin remarked.

She shrugged. “It works most of the time, but like all systems it’s not perfect. There are some magicians who would rather spend their time complaining and manipulating others than wasting their magic on tilling the fields or heating kilns.”

“Most Guild magicians would agree. But we do work for the people in other ways. Maintaining the port. Building bridges and other structures. Defending the country. Healing the sick and in—”

The look she cast him had stopped the words in his throat. It began as a savage glare, then turned into a troubled frown, and then she turned away.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Someone’s coming,” she said, looking into the shadowed road ahead. “Anyone we pass could be a Traitor. We shouldn’t be talking. Someone might overhear us and realise who we are.”

The approaching figure turned out to be another slave. From then on Tyvara would not speak, telling him to be quiet if he attempted to start another conversation. As the sky began to lighten, she began scanning the surrounding area as she had done the previous morning, eventually moving off the road to where some thin trees barely screened a field wall.

They’d hidden among some dense, prickly bushes the previous day. These trees weren’t going to provide the same cover, however. Tyvara was staring at the ground. Lorkin felt a vibration, then heard a strange tearing sound followed by something between a thump and a popping noise. A cloud of dust rose up beyond the wall and the air filled with the smell of grit and dirt.

Before their feet a hole appeared.

“In you go,” Tyvara said, gesturing toward the hole.

“In there?” Lorkin crouched and peered into the darkness. “Are you hoping to bury me alive?”

“No, foolish Kyralian,” she snapped. “I’m trying to hide us both. Get inside before someone sees us.”

He put his hands on either side of the hole and let his legs dangle inside. There was no floor that he could reach. The prospect of falling into darkness didn’t appeal, so he created a spark of light within the space. It illuminated a hollow space under the ground, the curved floor not far below his feet. He let himself drop, then crouched to avoid scraping his head on the “ceiling” as he moved further inside.

The hollow was globe-shaped, mainly situated below the wall. Two holes showed circles of brightening sky above the field, one that he had entered and another that he guessed had been the exit for the dirt. The inside of the hollow was no doubt restrained from falling in and burying him by Tyvara’s magic.

She dropped and slid in beside him, immediately folding herself down into a sitting position facing him. The space was small for two people, and her legs brushed up against his. He hoped the flash of interest this stirred in him didn’t show somehow. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, then she sighed and looked away.

“Sorry for snapping at you. It can’t be easy for you to trust me.”

He smiled ruefully. The trouble is, I want to trust her. I should be questioning every move she makes, especially after what she told me the other night. Well, I would, but when I get her talking something happens and she goes all silent on me again. She was watching him, her expression apologetic. Maybe I should try again.

“That’s fine. But it’s not the first time I’ve annoyed you tonight. What did I say, when we were discussing servants and the Traitors at the beginning of the night, that bothered you?” he asked.

Her eyes widened, then her mouth thinned into a line of reluctance. He thought she wasn’t going to answer, but she shook her head.

“I’ll have to explain eventually.” She grimaced and looked down at her knees. “Many years ago my people noticed that one of the Ichani that roam about the wasteland had a strange slave. A pale man, possibly a Kyralian.” Her gaze flickered up to meet his, then away. “Your father.”

Lorkin felt a chill run across his skin. Though he had heard the story before, his mother had always been reluctant to talk about this part of his father’s life.

“They watched for a long time and eventually realised that the slave was a Guild magician,” Tyvara continued. “This was unusual, as you may know already, as Sachakans don’t tolerate slaves knowing magic. If a slave develops powers naturally they will kill him, or her. Enslaving a foreign magician – especially a Guild magician – was extraordinary and dangerous. But this was no ordinary Ichani. He was cunning and ambitious.

“As my people watched, they guessed that your father did not know higher magic. Then, one day, the daughter of the leader of my people fell terribly ill and soon it was clear she was dying. Our leader had heard of the Guild’s skills in healing with magic. We’ve tried for many years to discover the secret for ourselves, without success. So our leader sent one of us out to meet your father and make an offer.” Tyvara’s face darkened. “She would teach him higher magic in exchange for Healing magic.”

She looked up at him. Lorkin stared back at her. His mother had never mentioned that his father had agreed to exchange anything for black magic, nor had anybody else in the Guild.

“And?” he prompted.

“He agreed.”

“He can’t – couldn’t – do that!” Lorkin blurted.

Tyvara frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s … it’s a decision only the Higher Magicians can make. And then probably only with the approval of the king. To give such valuable knowledge to another race … a people not of the Allied Lands … is too risky. And there would have to be something given in exchange.”

“Higher magic,” she reminded him.

“Which they would never have accepted in exchange. It is…” He caught himself. Revealing that black magic was forbidden would reveal the Guild’s greatest weakness. “It was not his decision to make.”

Tyvara’s mouth set in a disapproving line. “Yet he agreed to the offer,” she said. “He agreed to come to our home and teach us Healing – something he said that could not be taught in a moment, as higher magic can be. So he was taught higher magic and he used it to kill his master. Then he disappeared, returning to Imardin and breaking his promise. Our leader’s daughter died.”

Lorkin found he could not meet her accusing gaze. He looked at the ground and picked up a handful of dirt, letting it fall between his fingers.

“I can see why your people are angry with him,” he said lamely.

She drew in a deep breath and looked away. “Not all of them. One of my people travelled to Imardin later, when it was clear the brother of your father’s former master was preparing to invade Kyralia. She discovered that this Ichani had been sending spies into Imardin for some time, and that your father was killing them off in secret. It could be that your father returned home because he discovered the threat from his master’s brother.”

“Or he assumed you understood he had to persuade the Guild to allow him to teach you Healing before he could return.”

She looked at him. “Do you think that is true?”

Lorkin shook his head. “No. He could not have told them about you without revealing that he had …” – he had learned black magic – “… he had been enslaved here.”

“He broke his promise out of pride?” Her tone was disapproving, though not as much as he would have expected. Perhaps she understood why his father had been reluctant to tell his tale.

“I doubt that was the only reason,” he said. “He did reveal the truth when it was needed. Or most of the truth, as it turns out,” he added.

“Well,” she said, shrugging. “Whatever the reason, he didn’t keep his promise. Some of my people – the faction I mentioned the other night – want you punished for it.” She smiled crookedly as he looked at her in horror. “Which is why Riva was sent to kill you, against our leader’s orders. But the majority of us hold to the principle that we are better than our barbaric Sachakan cousins. We do not punish the child for the crimes of the parent.”

Lorkin sighed with relief. “I’m glad to hear that.”

She smiled. “Instead we give them a chance to make amends.”

“But what can I do? I am a mere Ambassador’s assistant. I don’t even know higher magic.”

Her expression became serious. “You could teach us Healing.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then she looked down.

“But, as you just pointed out, you haven’t the authority to give us that knowledge.”

He shook his head. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked apologetically.

She frowned, her eyes fixed on the dirt wall as she considered. “No.” Her mouth twisted into a grimace. “This isn’t good. We have kept the other faction from gaining popularity by promoting the idea that you could give us what your father promised. When my people realise that you can’t give them Healing they will be disappointed. And angry.” She bowed her head. “Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t take you there. Perhaps I should send you back home.”

“Don’t you need me there to help prove that Riva tried to kill me against orders?” he asked.

“It would help my case.”

“Would going to Sanctuary to speak on your behalf improve my standing among your people?”

She frowned and looked at him. “Yes … but …”

As Lorkin considered that, he felt conflicting emotions. I was hoping to see her home and learn about her people – and find out what they know about stones with magical qualities. What will happen to her if I don’t go there? She killed one of her own people to save me. Though Riva was disobeying orders, they may still punish Tyvara. Perhaps even execute her. It doesn’t seem right to run away home when she might die for saving my life. And I don’t much like my chances of getting home – on my own or with Dannyl’s help – with black-magic-wielding Traitors all over Sachaka trying to kill me.

“Then I will travel with you to Sanctuary.”

Her eyes widened and she gazed at him. “Are you sure?”

He shrugged. “I am an Ambassador’s assistant. Perhaps not an actual Ambassador, but it is still my role to assist in establishing and maintaining friendly relations between Kyralia and Sachaka. If it turns out that there’s a part of Sachaka we’ve been failing to establish friendly relations with, it is my duty to ensure that part is not ignored or neglected.”

She was staring at him now, mouth open, though whether from surprise or disbelief or because he’d sounded like a complete idiot he wasn’t sure.

“And since my predecessor made such a bad impression on your people it is even more important that I do what I can to improve their view of the Guild and Kyralians,” he continued. Then he felt a giddying rush of inspiration. “And discuss the possibility of negotiating an exchange of magical knowledge, this time with the appropriate parties and processes involved.”

Tyvara’s mouth snapped shut and, for a moment, she regarded him with an intensity that he could only meet with a hopeful and foolish smile. Then she threw back her head and laughed. The sound echoed in the hole and she smacked a hand over her mouth.

“You are mad,” she said, when her shoulders had stopped shaking. “Fortunately for you it’s a madness I like. If you truly wish to risk your life coming to Sanctuary, whether to defend me or try to persuade my people to give you something in exchange for what they already feel they are owed … then I selfishly feel I shouldn’t try to dissuade you.”

He shrugged. “It’s the least I can do. For you saving my life. And for your people saving my father’s. Will you take me?”

“Yes.” She smiled grimly. “And if you help me then I will do all I can to help you survive when you get there.”

“That would be appreciated, too.”

She looked as if she would say something else, but then looked away. “Well, we have to get there first. It’s a long walk. Better get some sleep.”

He watched her curl up, tucking one arm under her head; then he lay down. It was impossible to find a comfortable position on the curved floor, and eventually he copied her, curling up on his side with his back to her. He could feel the heat from her body. No, don’t think about that, or you’ll never get to sleep.

“Could you turn the light out?” she murmured.

“Can I dim it instead?” The prospect of being underground in complete darkness did not appeal at all.

“If you must.”

He reduced the spark of light until it barely illuminated the two of them. Then he listened to the sound of her breathing, waiting for the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. He knew he was far too conscious of her body so close to his to fall asleep himself. But he was very tired …

Before long he had drifted into strange dreams, in which he walked along a road of dirt so soft he had to wade through it, while Tyvara, being lighter and more nimble, barely stirred the soil and was getting further and further ahead …