The Magician’s Apprentice

by Труди Канаван

  “I have sent a message to the wives,” Vora said, moving to another chest. “Are you planning what I think you’re planning?”

  “What do you think I’m planning?”

  “A little evening thievery. For which you’ll need to cover that Elyne skin of yours.” Vora took something from the chest and held it out. It was a dark green wrap, long enough to cover her legs. Stara took it and began to change.

  “I’d say I was borrowing without permission, except I’d never convince you.” Grabbing a dark blue blanket woven by one of the women and given in thanks for her help, Stara wrapped it around her shoulders. She stuffed her feet into a pair of sandals and hurried out of the room, Vora following. “Are you coming with me?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  Stara looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Thank you.”

  The air outside was pleasantly warm, though it held the scent of smoke. The sun hovered near the horizon. Soon the city would be shrouded in a concealing darkness. Which will be the right time to slip away.

  The courtyard was deserted. Stara wondered where the slaves had gone as she and Vora slipped out of the doors into the street. Keeping to the shadows cast by the city’s high walls, they hurried away. The slave’s darker skin and drab clothing made her even less noticeable than Stara in the dusky light.

  An eerie silence was broken now and then by the sound of running feet, or wailing, or the passing of a cart. They reached a main road and suddenly the air was full of noise. People crowded the thoroughfare. Carts laden with belongings and people rattled past, all heading out of the city.

  She and Vora had to weave their way across, dodging animals and people. On the other side they found themselves on empty streets again, though at one point doors opened and a stream of carts spilled out, heading towards the main road.

  “Perhaps by night there will be less of a crowd,” she remarked aloud.

  “I doubt it,” Vora murmured in reply.

  Finally they reached the house Stara remembered from her one visit to her husband’s friend’s home. She’d been surprised to learn that Chavori lived in such a spectacular house. But it turned out that the house belonged to his father, and Chavori lived in a single room located at the rear of the property, out of sight and reached most easily through a slave entrance. It indicated with painful clarity what his family thought of his dedication to drawing maps.

  Stara found the door to the slave entrance open and unlocked.

  “This is odd,” she murmured.

  Vora shrugged and peered inside. “The slaves may have fled. They’d hardly stop to make sure to close the door after them.”

  They slipped inside. Stara’s heart was pounding now. If anyone found them... well, she could pretend to be looking for somewhere to hide. It was obvious from her clothes she was a free woman. Or she could pretend to be looking for Kachiro. They might not remember her, but Kachiro was a regular visitor.

  Chavori’s room was located down a long corridor that looked long overdue for repainting. She crept along it as quietly as she could. Reaching the door, she was relieved to find it, too, was ajar. No need to break it to get in. But what if someone else had already stolen the maps? The thought made her pause, one hand on the door. And realise she could hear sobbing and a man repeating a name.

  And that the voice was familiar. All too familiar.

  She exchanged a look with Vora, then pushed open the door. The room was as small and neatly arranged as she remembered. A large desk covered in parchment and writing tools took up one side of the room. Along the opposite wall was a narrow bed. Sitting on the bed was her husband, cradling an unconscious Chavori.

  Not unconscious, she corrected herself as she saw the bloodied mess that was his chest. Dead.

  Kachiro looked up at her and she felt her heart spasm at the grief she saw in his face. He blinked and recognition came into his eyes, then they widened with surprise.

  “Stara?”

  “Kachiro,” she breathed, hurrying forward and kneeling before him. “Oh, Kachiro. I am so sorry.”

  He looked down at Chavori and she could see the internal struggle that followed. Fear that he’d been discovered, she guessed. Then hate, probably at himself for the fear. And then his eyes filled with tears and he covered his face with one bloodstained hand. She reached out to stroke his head.

  “I know you loved him,” she told him. “I know... everything.” He flinched and stared at her. “Remember that I grew up in Elyne.” She smiled crookedly. “You won’t receive any judgement from me. I even understand why you married me.”

  “Sorry,” he croaked. “I am a terrible husband.”

  She shrugged. “I forgive you. How could I not? You are a good man, Kachiro. You have a good heart. I am proud to be your wife.” Standing up, she held out a hand. “Come home.”

  He looked at Chavori again, then sighed deeply. “I want to give him a proper death burning. The Kyralians won’t know who he is. They’ll put him under the ground.”

  Stara felt a shiver run over her skin. She’d forgotten the Sachakan custom. Then she shuddered again. Even Kachiro believes the Kyralians have won.

  “Is his family here?” she said.

  “No. All gone. Or dead. So are the others. Motaro. Dashina. All of them. I am the only . . .” He closed his eyes and grimaced.

  “Do it,” she urged. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here. I’m not sure I’m ready to see that.”

  He nodded, then gathered Chavori’s body up in his arms and carried it out. The young man suddenly seemed very frail and small, and Kachiro taller and broader.

  Once he had gone, she turned to the maps and began looking through them.

  “I want to be sure there are no copies left behind,” she whispered to Vora. “No notes or sketches. Nothing to tell anyone this place he described exists.”

  The maps on the table were of the volcanos in the north, with flows of lava indicated with rippling red lines. She paused as she realised how close he must have climbed to make his measurements. He’s braver than he appears. Or appeared. She felt a pang of loss. What else would he have invented and discovered, had the Kyralians not ended his life too soon?

  Several tubes like the ones Chavori had used to transport his maps stood on end in the corner of the room. Stara took one and opened an end, then tipped the rolls of parchment out onto the table. She unrolled them, one by one. They were of the coast of Sachaka. She cursed under her breath. How long was it going to take Kachiro to burn Chavori’s body and return?

  Hearing a sigh of frustration from Vora, she turned to see that the old woman was leafing through bundles of parchment in a small chest, opening the covers and shaking her head.

  “He has terrible handwriting,” the slave said. “It could take weeks to read all this.”

  “Can we take them with us?”

  Vora looked into the chest and grimaced. “It’ll be heavy.”

  Stara reached for another tube. “Can we send someone back for them?”

  “What are you doing?” Kachiro’s voice came from the doorway.

  Stara froze, her back to him. “We can’t let all his work be lost,” she said. The lie tasted sour in her mouth. But in an odd way, it’s true. Who knows what would happen to them, if they were left here? We may be saving them from destruction.

  “No,” she heard him say. “He wouldn’t have liked that. Put them back in the tubes.”

  Hearing his footsteps approaching, she turned to smile wanly at him. He took the maps on the table and rolled them up, then slipped them into the tube. Picking up half of the tubes, he handed them to Stara. The other half he gave to Vora. Then, with a grunt, he picked up the chest.

  “Let’s get these to a safe place,” he said, then strode out of the door.

  The pace he set on the return journey was hurried, and though Stara and Vora were less heavily burdened they struggled to keep up. The sun had set and a deepening twilight was leaching everything of colour. Finally they reach
ed Kachiro’s house and slipped inside. Stara saw the surprise on his face as he took in the crowd of women in the master’s room, all dressed ready for travel. The other wives were there, with their children. Stara had no idea if they knew of the fate of their husbands. That news would have to be delivered later. Several women Stara knew to be slaves were in the crowd, wearing similar clothing to the free women. Tavara was not among them. For some reason this filled Stara with relief.

  He put the chest down. “Where are you going?”

  “Out of the city,” Stara told him. She put the maps down, moved to stand in front of him and searched his gaze. “I didn’t know when or...or if you’d come back, so I started organising it. I think we’ll be safer out of Arvice for a while. Chiara has friends in the country.” That last was a lie, of course.

  His eyebrows rose and he began to nod. “Yes. It would be safer for you all. And you should take these too.” He gestured to the chest.

  She frowned. “What about you? You’re not coming with us?”

  Kachiro paused, then shook his head. “No. The Kyralians can’t kill every Sachakan magician and expect the slaves to keep working – whether as slaves or not. We’ll starve. Someone has to stay and try to save something of what we have.” He grimaced. “And though I’m better at negotiation than fighting, if the chance comes to drive them out, or even take a little revenge, I want to be here for it.”

  Stara felt a wistful pride sweep through her. She kissed him on the cheek, and then, as he stared at her in surprise, gave him a stern look. “You take care of yourself. I’ll send word when we’ve reached Chiara’s friends.”

  He nodded and smiled wearily. “You take care of yourselves, too. I should go with you, to protect—”

  The women all voiced a wordless disagreement. “We’ll stick together, and we have slaves to defend us,” Chiara assured him.

  “Now, it’s dark outside and we want to get some distance between ourselves and Arvice before we stop,” Stara said, turning to the women. She picked up the tubes and handed them out. “Take one each, and spread the weight of these out between you.” She bent and opened the chest, handing out bundles of notes.

  “Surely the slaves will carry those for you,” Kachiro said.

  Stara didn’t have the heart to tell him how many slaves had run away. She already felt guilty at leaving him here, in the city. For a moment she was tempted to talk him into coming, but her dream of a true Sanctuary did not include men.

  “I’d rather they carried food, and other necessities,” she told him. “Don’t worry, they’re not much trouble spread out.” The women were now looking at her expectantly. She smiled at Kachiro, and touched his cheek. “Goodbye.”

  He smiled faintly, took her hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  They gazed at each other for a moment longer, then she tore herself away. “Come along,” she said, gesturing to the door. The women managed smiles and even a few light-hearted comments as they followed Stara out, making it sound as if they were setting out on a pleasure trip. Stara didn’t look back, not wanting to see Kachiro standing, alone, watching them go.

  Once outside she breathed a deep sigh of relief, then set a quick but not too tiring pace along the road. The women quietened, all pretence at joviality abandoned. Vora began to walk alongside Stara.

  “Which way out, do you think?” the slave murmured.

  “The main road,” Stara replied. “All the other roads will be crowded. It’s obvious we’re a bunch of free women travelling with no protectors. I’d rather not have to use any magic until I have to. People might avoid the route the Kyralians took.”

  “I guess if the Kyralians won they won’t have reason to leave the city.”

  “And if they lost, they’re dead.”

  They hurried on, the only sound the rustle of clothing, the patter of footsteps and the breathing of the women. Distant sounds echoed from around the city. A dull boom. An angry shout. A scream that made them all stop and shiver. Stara felt a tension growing inside her. She resisted an urge to start running. Just a jog, her mind urged. Not an outright race. But she did not want to tire herself or the women out. They might need the energy later.

  She found herself reaching in to the store of magic within her, giving it the lightest of touches to reassure herself it was still there, ready to be drawn upon. It was tempting to try covering them all in a shield, but while she had learned to do that as part of her basic training, she hadn’t bothered to practise in years and wasn’t sure how much power she’d use stretching it to protect so many people. Still, she was ready to throw up a wall. Ready to strike out, too, if she had to.

  They were coming up to the main road now. She slowed as she saw rubble scattered over the highway. Houses on the other side of the road were burning, casting a flickering, hot light. The women made low noises as they noticed the damage. All stopped at the corner to gaze about in grim silence.

  Stara heard the faintest of sounds to her right. Then her heart jumped as she realised that the movement she’d seen in the corner of her eye was not the flicker of shadows cast by the fire. She threw out her arms and moved backwards, pushing the women back.

  But they had not seen the danger, and moved too slowly. Two figures appeared on the road ahead, walking slowly and staring around. A man and a woman. Their dress was Kyralian. Stara froze and heard the women catch their breaths.

  Then the man spun to face them. Stara felt a surge of fear and let loose magic, instinctively shaping it into a force to sweep the invaders away.

  And it did. The two strangers were thrown across the road and landed like dolls tossed upon the ground.

  Are they dead? Stara stared at the Kyralians, waiting for them to move. As time stretched on she became aware of the gasping, frightened breathing of the women around her. Even Vora was panting with fear.

  “They’re not moving,” Chiara said. She took a step forward. “I think you got them.”

  “Better make sure,” Tashana advised.

  Stara took a deep breath and moved forward. The women followed. They reached the man. She felt her heart skip as she realised he was conscious, and put up a wall of magic. He’d landed on a section of wall. As she approached he moved, pushing himself up then rolling onto his back. His front was covered in blood, which seeped out as she watched. Looking back at the wall, she saw the mangled end of a lamp hook, glistening wetly.

  His eyes flickered from face to face. Stara reached for magic, preparing to finish him off. But then a look of recognition and surprise stole over his face.

  “You . . .” he said, his voice catching with pain, his eyes on the women behind her.

  “It’s the one who let us go,” Nachira said. “The one who found us, at the Sanctuary, and left us without telling the others.”

  Stara felt horror wash over her. Why, of all the invaders, had she struck down the only one who had shown any compassion?

  “I didn’t see a girl, though,” Nachira added.

  Looking past the young man, Stara saw that the woman was lying on her side, eyes closed. They didn’t defend themselves. Perhaps they had no power left. It was impossible to tell whether the woman was unconscious or dead. She grimaced. With the luck I’m having, she’ll turn out to be someone else I shouldn’t have killed. Sighing, she turned away.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  Feeling tired in her heart, but pushing doubt aside, she started down the road. As she left the city of her birth, she did not look back. Instead, she lifted the map tube so it rested over one shoulder, and set her mind on her dream of a Sanctuary for women, where all were equal and free. And the women she had befriended and championed here followed.

  Rows of trees surrounded by beds of flowering plants lined the wide road to the Imperial Palace. Once the army had reached this thoroughfare the attacks had stopped. Dakon doubted it was because the local magicians didn’t want to ruin the streetscape. Most likely they were rushing to join in a last line of defence at the pal
ace gates.

  He looked over his shoulder again, seeking where the road they had fought their way down had met this tree-lined thoroughfare. He found it and searched for movement.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Narvelan said. “They’re a smart pair. They’ll keep out of sight until we can go back and fetch them.”

  If they’re alive. Dakon sighed and turned back to face the front. But if they aren’t . . . my mind knows Narvelan is right but my heart says otherwise.

  “I should go back,” he said for the hundredth time.

  “You’d die,” Narvelan replied. “Which won’t do them any good at all.”

  “I could go,” another voice said.

  Dakon and Narvelan turned to look at Mikken, riding to Dakon’s left.

  “No,” they both said together.

  “When it gets dark,” the apprentice said. “I’ll keep in the shadows. It doesn’t matter as much if I die – and I was supposed to stay with Jayan—”

  “No,” Narvelan repeated. “You’re a better asset to Jayan alive. If anybody is going to slip back at night, it will be all of us plus a few more as extra protection.”

  Mikken’s shoulders slumped and he nodded.

  They were nearing the palace now. Looking up at the building, Dakon saw that it was a larger, grander version of the mansions they had seen before. The walls were rendered and painted white. They curved sensually. But they were far thicker and taller, and formed dome-topped towers here and there.

  As the army neared the gates the magicians shifted into fighting teams without a word spoken. No sound came from the building. No one emerged to challenge them.

  There was a muffled clunk, then the gates swung open.

  “The emperor invites you to enter,” a voice called.

  Dakon watched as the king, Sabin and the Dem discussed their options. We could stay here and wait until someone comes out. We could all go in. Or one of us could go in wearing a blood ring, and communicate if the way is safe.