The Ambassador's Mission

CHAPTER 3

SAFE PLACES, DANGEROUS DESTINATIONS



His desk is always such a mess,” Tayend told Lorkin. As Dannyl frowned at the scholar, Tayend grinned, the few lines crossing his forehead smoothing out. Nobody would guess that he’s more than forty years old, Dannyl thought. I’m turning into a wrinkly skeleton while Tayend … Tayend looked better than ever, he noted. He’d put on a little weight, but it suited him.

“It only looks disorganised,” Dannyl said, not for the first time. “I know where everything is.”

Tayend chuckled. “I’m sure it’s just a ploy to ensure nobody can steal his research and ideas.” He grinned at Lorkin. “Now, don’t let him bore you to death. If you feel your mind is starting to shrivel up, come talk to me, and we’ll open another bottle of wine.”

Lorkin smiled and nodded. “I will.”

The scholar waved a hand in farewell, then effected a jaunty walk as he left the room. Dannyl resisted rolling his eyes and sighing, and turned back to Sonea’s son. The young man was eyeing the piles of documents and books on Dannyl’s desk doubtfully.

“There is order to the madness,” Dannyl assured him. “It starts at the back. That first pile contains everything relating to the earliest records of magic. It’s full of descriptions of places like the Tomb of White Tears, and a lot of conjecture about what the glyphs suggest magic was used for.” Dannyl took out the sketches Tayend had made when they had visited the Tombs over twenty years before. He pointed out the glyph of a man kneeling before a woman, who was touching his upraised palms. “This glyph means ‘high magic’.”

“Black magic?”

“Perhaps. But it might be Healing magic. It may be only coincidence that our predecessors called black magic ‘higher magic’.” Dannyl leafed through the pile and another sketch, this time of a crescent moon and hand, flipped into view.

“What is that?” Lorkin asked.

“A symbol we found in the ruined city of Armje. It was a symbol that represented the royal family of that city like an incal symbolises a Kyralian House. Armje is thought to have been abandoned over two thousand years ago.”

“What was the symbol written on?”

“It was carved above house lintels, and we saw it once on what I suspect was a blood ring.” Dannyl smiled as he remembered Dem Ladeiri, the eccentric noble and collector he and Tayend had stayed with in an old castle in the Elyne mountains, near Armje. Then he felt his smile fade as he remembered the underground chamber he’d found in the ruins, called the “Cavern of Ultimate Punishment.” Strange crystalline walls had attacked him with magic and would have killed him if Tayend hadn’t dragged him out just as his shield had failed.

The former High Lord, Akkarin, had asked Dannyl to keep the Cavern a secret to prevent other magicians stumbling inside to their death. After the Ichani Invasion, Dannyl had told the new High Lord, Balkan, of the Cavern, and the Guild leader had ordered him to record what he knew, but also to keep it secret. When the book was finished, Balkan would reconsider whether to allow others to know of the place.

Has Balkan sent anyone there to investigate? I can’t imagine the Warrior would be able to resist trying to find out how the Cavern works. Especially as it has so much potential as a defensive weapon.

“So they knew how to make blood rings two thousand years ago?”

Dannyl looked up at Lorkin, then nodded. “And who knows what else? But that knowledge was lost.” He pointed to the second, smaller pile. “This is all I have relating to the time before the Sachakan Empire conquered Kyralia and Elyne, over a thousand years ago. The few records that we have only survived from that time because they are copies, and they suggest that there were only two or three magicians, and that those had limited skills and power.”

“So if the people who knew how to make blood rings, and whatever high magic was, died without passing that knowledge on …”

“… whether because they didn’t trust anyone enough to teach them, or they never found anyone gifted enough to teach.”

Lorkin looked thoughtful – and definitely not bored, Dannyl noted with relief. The young magician’s attention moved to the third pile.

“Three centuries of Sachakan rule,” Dannyl told him. “I’ve more than doubled the information we have from that time, though that wasn’t hard because there was so little to begin with.”

“A time when Kyralians were slaves,” Lorkin said, his expression grim.

“And slave owners,” Dannyl reminded him. “I believe that the Sachakans brought higher magic to Kyralia.”

Lorkin stared at him in disbelief. “Surely they wouldn’t have taught their enemy black magic!”

“Why not? After Kyralia had been conquered it became part of the Empire. The Sachakans didn’t kill every noble, only those who would not swear allegiance to the Empire. There would have been intermarriage, and mixed blood heirs. Three hundred years is a long time. Kyralians would have been citizens of Sachaka.”

“But they still fought to regain their land, and to get rid of slavery.”

“Yes.” Dannyl patted the top of the pile. “And that is clearly recorded in documents and letters leading up to and following the emperor’s decision to grant Kyralia and Elyne their independence. Both countries abolished slavery, though there was some resistance.”

Lorkin looked at the pile of books, documents and notes. “That’s not what we’re taught in the University.”

Dannyl chuckled. “No. And the version of history you were taught was even less sanitised than what I learned as a novice.” He tapped the next pile. “My generation never knew that Kyralian magicians once used black magic, taking strength from their apprentices in exchange for magical teaching. It was one of the most difficult truths for us to accept.”

The younger magician eyed the fourth pile of books with cautious curiosity. “Are they the books my father found under the Guild?”

“Some of them are copies of what he unearthed. With any dangerous information about black magic removed.”

“How are you going to write a history of that time without including information about black magic?”

Dannyl shrugged. “So long as there’s nothing instructive, there is no danger of anyone learning how to use it from what I write.”

“But … Mother says that you have to learn black magic from the mind of a black magician. Surely you can’t learn it from books?”

“We don’t think it can be, but we’re not taking the risk.”

Lorkin nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So … the Sachakan War is next? That’s a big stack of books.”

“Yes.” Dannyl regarded the generous pile of books and records beside the “independence” one. “I sent out word that I wanted records from that time, and I’ve received a steady stream of diaries, accounts and records from throughout the Allied Lands ever since.” At the top of the pile was a little book he’d found in the Great Library twenty years ago, that had first alerted him to the possibility that the Guild’s version of history might be wrong.

“You must have that time well covered.”

“Not completely.” Dannyl told him. “Most of these records are from lands other than Kyralia. There are still gaps in the history. We know that Kyralian magicians drove the Sachakan invaders out and won the war, and then conquered and ruled Sachaka for a time. We know that the wasteland that weakened the country wasn’t created for several years after the war. But we don’t know how they kept the Sachakan magicians under control, or how they created the wasteland.” And what is the treasure that the Elynes claimed to have loaned or given to the Kyralians, which was then lost, along with its secrets? Dannyl felt a familiar, strangely pleasant frustration. There were still mysteries to be explored, and this was one of the more intriguing ones.

“Why don’t you have records from Kyralia?”

Dannyl sighed. “It’s possible they were destroyed when the Guild banned black magic. Or they might have been lost during the war. So much of history has been muddled. For instance: we’re taught that Imardin was levelled during the Sachakan War, but I now have maps from before and after the war that show a similar street pattern. A few hundred years later, however, we have an entirely new street pattern – the one we know today.”

“So … the age of the maps is wrong, or something levelled the city later. Did anything dramatic happen after the Sachakan War?”

Dannyl nodded and picked up the book on top of the next, much smaller pile. Lorkin hummed in recognition.

“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 protect 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.