Stop it. He’s not there.
Balkan had lived there for the last twenty years. She had often wondered whether he felt haunted by the shadow of the former occupant, but had never asked, sure such a question would be tactless.
He’s up on the hill. Behind you.
She turned and looked beyond the walls, seeing in her imagination the shiny white new stone slabs among the grey of the ancient cemetery. An old longing filled her, but she hesitated. She had much to do today. But it was early – dawn was only just breaking. She had time. And it had been a while. Cery’s terrible news brought a need to … to what? Perhaps to acknowledge his loss by recalling her own. She needed to do more than act out the usual daily routine and pretend something awful hadn’t happened.
Returning to her bedroom, she washed and changed quickly, threw a cloak around her shoulders – black over black – then slipped out of the main door to her room, walked as quietly as she could down the hall of the Magicians’ Quarters to the entrance and out onto the path to the cemetery.
New paths had been laid since the first time she’d visited, with Lord Rothen, over twenty years before. Weedy vegetation had been removed, but the Guild had left a wall of protective trees around the outermost graves. She noted the smooth slabs of freshly carved stone. Some she had seen laid, some she hadn’t. When a magician died, any magic left in his or her body was released, and if there was enough of it their body was consumed. So the old graves had been a mystery. If there was no body to bury, why were there graves here?
The rediscovery of black magic had answered that question. The last remaining magical energy of those ancient magicians had been drawn away by a black magician, leaving a body to bury.
Now that black magic was no longer taboo, though strictly controlled, burials had become popular again. The task of drawing the last of a magician’s power fell to the Guild’s two black magicians, her and Black Magician Kallen.
Sonea felt that, if she had taken the last of a magician’s power at death, she ought to be present at the funeral. I wonder if Kallen feels the same sense of obligation when a magician chooses him. She moved to a plain, undecorated slab of stone and dried the dew from one corner with magical heat so she could sit down. Her eyes found the name carved into it. Akkarin. You would have found it amusing to see how many of the magicians who were so against reviving the use of black magic resort to it in the end, so their flesh remains after death to rot in the ground. Perhaps you’d have decided, as I have, that allowing your body to be consumed by your last magic is more appropriate for a magician and, she glanced at the increasingly elaborate decoration on the newer graves provided by the Guild, considerably less expensive.
She looked at the words on the grave she sat upon. A name, a title, a house name, a family name. Later the words “Father of Lorkin” had been added, in small, begrudging letters. But of her own name there was no mention. And will never be, while your family has anything to do with it, Akkarin. But at least they’ve accepted your son.
Pushing bitterness aside, she turned her mind to Cery and his family for a while, allowing herself to remember grief and feel the ache of sympathy. To allow memories to return, some welcome, some not. After a while the sound of footsteps roused her from her thoughts and she realised the sun had risen completely.
Turning to face the visitor, she smiled as she saw Rothen walking toward her. For a moment his wrinkled face was a mask of concern, then it relaxed into an expression of relief.
“Sonea,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “A messenger came to see you. Nobody knew where you’d gone.”
“And I bet it caused a lot of unnecessary fuss and excitement.”
He frowned at her. “This is not a good time to be making the Guild question their trust of a common-born magician, Sonea, considering the change of rules about to be proposed.”
“Is there ever a good time for that?” She rose and sighed. “Besides, I didn’t destroy the Guild and turn all Kyralians into slaves, did I? I went for a walk. Nothing sinister at all.” She looked at him. “I haven’t left the city in twenty years, and have only left the Guild grounds to work in the hospices. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not for some. And certainly not for Kallen.”
Sonea shrugged. “I expect that from Kallen. It’s his job.” She hooked her hand around his elbow and they started back down the path. “Don’t worry about Kallen, Rothen. I can handle him. Besides, he wouldn’t dare complain about me visiting Akkarin’s grave.”
“You should have left a message for Jonna, saying where you were going.”
“I know, but these things tend to be a little spontaneous.”
He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”
She smiled at him. “Yes. I have a son who is alive and thriving, hospices in the city where I can do some good, and you. What more do I need?”
He paused to think. “A husband?”
She laughed. “I don’t need a husband. I’m not sure I even want one. I thought I’d be lonely once Lorkin moved out of my rooms, but I’m finding I like having more time to myself. A husband would … get in the way.”
Rothen chuckled.
Or be a weakness an enemy could exploit, she found herself thinking. But that thought had more to do with Cery’s news sitting fresh in her mind than any real threat. While she was hardly without enemies, they merely disliked her for her lowly origins or feared the black magic she wielded. Nothing that would motivate any to the point of harming someone she loved. Otherwise they would have targeted Lorkin already.
As she thought of her son, memories rose of him as a child. Memories mixed together, older and younger, happy and disappointed, and she felt a familiar tight feeling that was part joy and part pain. When he was quiet and brooding, thinking hard or being clever, he reminded her so much of his father. But the confident, charming, stubborn, vocal side of him was so unlike Akkarin that she could only see a person who was unique and utterly himself and like no other. Except that Rothen claimed the stubborn and vocal part of his nature had definitely come from her.
As they emerged from the forest, Sonea looked down at the Guild grounds. Before them stood the Magicians’ Quarters, a long rectangular building that housed those magicians who chose to live in the grounds. At the far end was a courtyard, beyond which another building mirrored the placement and shape of the first – the Novices’ Quarters.
At the far end of the courtyard was the grandest of the Guild buildings, the University. Three storeys tall, it rose above all other Guild structures. Even after twenty years, Sonea felt a small glow of pride that she and Akkarin had saved this building. And, as always, it was followed by sadness and regret at the cost. If they had let the building fall, killing those that remained inside, and instead taken the power of the Arena, Akkarin might have lived.
But it wouldn’t have mattered how much power we’d gathered. Once he had been injured he would have still chosen to give me all his power and die rather than heal himself – or let me heal him – and risk us losing to the Ichani. And no matter how much power we’d taken, I’d never have had the time to defeat Kariko and heal Akkarin as well. She frowned. Maybe it isn’t me Lorkin gets his stubborn side from after all.
“Are you tempted to speak out in favour of the petition?” Rothen asked as they started down the path. “I know you’re in favour of abolishing the rule.”
She shook her head.
Rothen smiled. “Why not?”
“I might do more harm to their cause than good. After all, someone who grew up in the slums then went on to break a vow, learn forbidden magic, and defy the Higher Magicians and king to such a degree they were forced to send her into exile, is hardly going to inspire trust in lower-class-origin magicians.”
“You saved the country.”
“I helped Akkarin save the country. There’s a big difference.”
Rothen grimaced. “You played as great a part – and struck the final blow. They should remember that.”
&n
bsp; “And Akkarin sacrificed himself. Even if I wasn’t slum-born and a woman, I’d have a hard time measuring up to that.” She shrugged. “I’m not interested in thanks and recognition, Rothen. All that matters to me is Lorkin and the hospices. And yourself, of course.”
He nodded. “But what if I told you that Lord Regin has offered to represent those opposed to the petition?”
She felt her stomach sink at the name. Though the novice who had tormented her during her early years in the University was now a grown man, married and with two adult daughters, and had only ever treated her politely and respectfully since the Ichani Invasion, she could not help feeling an echo of distrust and dislike.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “He’s always been a snob.”
“Yes, though his character has improved a great deal since your novice days.”
“So he’s a well-mannered snob.”
Rothen chuckled. “Tempted now?”
She shook her head again.
“Well, you had better expect to have your opinion sought on the issue,” he warned. “Many will want to know your views and seek your advice.”
As they reached the courtyard, Sonea sighed. “I doubt it. But in case you’re right I will consider how I’ll reply to any questions that come my way. I don’t want to be an obstruction to the petitioners, either.”
And if Regin is representing the opposition, I had better be alert to any clever tactics. His manners may have improved, but he’s still as intelligent and devious as ever.
There was a small, neat tailor’s shop in West Gliar Street in the North Quarter that, if you knew the right people, gave access to small, private rooms on the second floor offering entertainment to young, rich men of the city.
Lorkin had been brought here for the first time four years ago, by his friend and fellow novice, Dekker, along with the rest of their friends. As always, it had been Dekker’s idea. He was the boldest of Lorkin’s friends, though that was a typical trait of most young Warriors. Of the rest of the group, Alchemist Sherran had always done whatever Dekker suggested, but Healers Reater and Orlon were not so easily led into mischief. Perhaps it was only natural for Healers to be cautious. Whatever the reason, Lorkin had only agreed to accompany Dekker because the pair hadn’t refused to.
Four years later they were all graduated magicians, and the tailor’s shop was their favourite meeting place. Today Perler had brought his Elyne cousin, Jalie, to visit their haunt for the first time.
“So this is the tailor shop I’ve heard so much about,” a young woman said, looking around the room. The furniture was finely made, worn cast-offs from the wealthier houses in the city. The paintings and window screens were crude in both execution and subject.
“Yes,” Dekker replied. “All the delights you might desire.”
“At a price,” she said, looking at him sideways.
“At a price we may be willing to pay on your behalf, for the pleasure of your company.”
She smiled. “You’re so sweet!”
“But not without her older cousin’s approval,” Perler added, giving Dekker a level look.
“Of course,” the younger man said, bowing slightly in Perler’s direction.
“So what delights do they offer?” Jalie asked of Dekker.
He waved a hand. “Pleasures of the body, pleasures of the mind.”
“Of the mind?”
“Ooh! Let’s get a brazier in here,” Sherran said, his eyes gleaming. “Have a little roet to relax us.”
“No,” Lorkin said. Hearing another voice speak along with his, he turned to nod in gratitude to Orlon, who was as repelled by the drug as Lorkin was.
They had tried it once before, and Lorkin had found the experience disturbing. It wasn’t how it had brought out Dekker’s cruel side, so that he had teased and tormented the girl who had been besotted with him at the time, but how this behaviour suddenly hadn’t bothered Lorkin. In fact, he’d found it funny, but later could not understand why.
The girl’s infatuation had ended that day, and Sherran’s love affair with roet had begun. Before then, Sherran would have done anything Dekker had asked him. Since that day, he would only do so if it didn’t come between him and roet.
“Let’s have a drink instead,” Perler suggested. “Some wine.”
“Do magicians drink?” Jalie asked. “I thought they weren’t allowed to.”
“We are,” Reater told her, “but it’s not a good idea to get too drunk. Losing control is as likely to involve magic as much as your stomach or bladder.”
“I see,” she said. “So does the Guild have to make sure any of the lowies it takes in aren’t drunks?”
The others glanced at Lorkin, and he smiled, knowing that it wasn’t because his mother was a “lowie” but because they knew he would walk out if they made more than the occasional joke about the lower classes.
“There are probably more snooties that are drunks than lowies,” Dekker told her. “We have ways of dealing with them. What wine would you like to drink?”
Lorkin looked away as the conversation turned to wine varieties. “Lowies” and “snooties” were the names that the rich and poor novices had given each other after the Guild had decided to accept entrants to the university from outside of the Houses. The nickname “lowie” had been adopted because none of the novices that had come from lower classes were actually poor. All novices were paid a generous allowance by the Guild. As were magicians, though they could supplement their income by magical or other means. A term had to be invented, and it happened to be an unflattering one, so the lowies had retorted with their own nickname for novices from the Houses. One that Lorkin had to admit was appropriate.
Lorkin did not fit into either group. His mother had come from the slums, his father from one of the most powerful Houses in Imardin. He had grown up in the Guild, away from the political manipulations and obligations of the Houses or the hard life of the slums. Most of his friends were snooties. He hadn’t avoided befriending lowies deliberately, but most lowies, while not appearing to resent him like they did the snooties, had been hard to talk to. It was only after some years, when Lorkin had a firm circle of snooty friends, that he realised that the lowies had been intimidated by him – or rather, who his father had been.
“… Sachaka like? Do they really still keep slaves?”
Lorkin’s attention snapped back to the conversation, and he shivered. The name of the land from which his father’s murderer had come from always sent a chill down his spine. Yet while it had once been from fear, now it was also from a strange excitement. Since the Ichani Invasion the Allied Lands had turned their attention to the neighbour they’d once ignored. Magicians and diplomats had ventured into Sachaka, seeking to avoid future conflict through negotiation, trade and agreements. Whenever they returned they brought descriptions of a strange culture and stranger landscape.
“They do,” Perler replied. Lorkin sat up a little straighter. Reater’s older brother had returned from Sachaka a few weeks ago, having spent a year working as the assistant to the Guild Ambassador to Sachaka. “Though you don’t see most of them. Your robes disappear from your room and reappear cleaned, but you never see who takes them. But you see the slave assigned to serve you, of course. We all have one.”
“So you had a slave?” Sherran asked. “Isn’t that against the king’s law?”
“They don’t belong to us,” Perler replied, shrugging. “The Sachakans don’t know how to treat servants properly, so we have to let them assign us slaves. Either that or we’d have to wash our own clothes and cook our own meals.”
“Which would be terrible,” Lorkin said in mock horror. His mother’s aunt was her servant, and her family worked as servants for rich families, yet they had a dignity and resourcefulness that he respected. He was determined that, should he ever have to do domestic chores, he would never be as humiliated by it as his fellow magicians would be.
Perler looked at him and shook his head. “There’
d be no time to do it ourselves. There’s always so much work to do. Ah, here are the drinks.”
“What sort of work?” Orlon asked as glasses of wine or water were poured and handed around.
“Negotiating trade deals, trying to encourage the Sachakans to abolish slavery in order to join the Allied Lands, keeping up with Sachakan politics – there is a group of rebels Ambassador Maron heard of that he was trying to find out more about, until he had to return to sort out his family’s troubles.”
“Sounds boring,” Dekker said.
“Actually, it was rather exciting.” Perler grinned. “A little scary at times, but I felt like we were doing something, well, historic. Making a difference. Changing things for the better – even if in tiny steps.”
Lorkin felt a strange thrill go through him. “Do you think they’re coming around on slavery?” he asked.
Perler shrugged. “Some are, but it’s hard to tell if they’re pretending to agree in order to be polite, or gain something from us. Maron thinks they could be persuaded to give up slavery much more easily than black magic.”
“It’s going to be hard to persuade them to give up black magic when we have two black magicians,” Reater pointed out. “Seems a bit hypocritical.”
“Once they ban black magic we will, too,” Perler said confidently.
Dekker turned to grin at Lorkin. “If that happens Lorkin won’t be taking over from his mother.”
Lorkin gave a snort of derision. “As if she’d let me. She’d much rather I took over running the hospices.”
“Would that be so bad?” Orlon asked quietly. “Just because you chose Alchemy doesn’t mean you couldn’t help out the Healers.”
“You need to be driven by absolute, unwavering dedication to run something like a hospice,” Lorkin replied. “I’m not. Though I almost wish I was.”
The Ambassador's Mission Page 3