The Ambassador's Mission

It’s a black magician’s knife. Ashaki Tariko is a black magician. For a moment he felt a rush of fear that was strangely exhilarating, but it faded as quickly and left behind a disappointing cynicism. Yeah, and so’s your mother, he found himself thinking, and he suddenly knew that living in a land of black magicians wasn’t going to be as thrilling and novel as he’d thought it would be.

His thoughts were interrupted by a stream of men and women, dressed simply in cloth wrapped about their torso and bound with a length of rope about their waist. They bore either a platter laden with food, or pitchers and goblets. Exotic smells assaulted his nose and he felt his stomach rumble in response. Each slave approached Ashaki Tariko, burden held out before them and head bowed, then knelt before him. The first held the utensils with which the host and guests would eat: a plate and a knife with a forked tip. Then goblets were offered and filled with wine. Finally there were successive dishes, the master of the house selecting first, then Dannyl, then Lorkin. Tariko dismissed each slave with a quiet, “Go.”

The master of the house first, Lorkin recited silently. Magicians before non-magicians, Ashaki before landless free men, age before youth, men before women. Only if a woman was a magician and head of her family would she be served before men. And women often eat separately from men anyway. I wonder if Ashaki Tariko has a wife.

The food was richly spiced, some so hot he had to stop and cool his mouth with a mouthful of wine every few bites. He resisted as long as possible, both in the hope he would grow used to the heat sooner, and because he did not want to end up insensible from drink – especially not on his first night as a guest of a Sachakan black magician.

While Dannyl and their host discussed the journey across the wastes, the weather, the food and the wine, Lorkin watched the slaves. The last of them to offer their burdens had waited the longest, but their arms were steady. It was strange to have these silent people in the room, all but ignored as Tariko and Dannyl talked.

These people are Tariko’s possessions, he reminded himself. They are put to work and bred like livestock. He tried to imagine what that would be like, and shuddered. Only when the last of the food had been offered and the last slave dismissed was Lorkin able to pay attention to the conversation.

“How does it affect you, living this close to the wasteland?” Dannyl asked.

Tariko shrugged. “If the wind comes from that direction it sucks the moisture out of everything. It can ruin a crop if it blows too long. Afterwards there will be a fine sanddust coating everything, inside and outside.” He looked up, beyond the walls toward the wasteland. “The wastes grow a little larger each year. One day, maybe in a thousand years, the sands will meet those in the north, and all Sachaka will be desert.”

“Unless it can be reversed,” Dannyl said. “Has anyone here attempted to reclaim land from the wastes?”

“Many.” Of course we have, Tariko’s expression seemed to say. “Sometimes successfully, but never permanently. Those who have studied the wastes say that the fertile top layer of the land was stripped away, and without it water is not retained and plants cannot return.”

Dannyl’s gaze sharpened with interest. “But you have no idea how?”

“No.” Tariko sighed. “Every few years it rains in the northern desert, and within a few days the land turns green. The soil is rich with ash from the volcanoes. It is only the lack of rain that keeps it a desert. We have plenty of rain here but still nothing grows.”

“That sounds like a wonder to see,” Lorkin added in a murmur. “The northern desert in flower, that is.”

Tariko smiled at him. “It is. The Duna tribes come south to harvest the desert plants and sell the dried leaves, fruit and seeds in Arvice. If you are lucky, such an event will happen during your stay, and you will have the opportunity to enjoy some rare spices and delicacies.”

“I hope so,” Lorkin said. “Though I can’t imagine anything more exotic and delicious than the meal we just enjoyed.”

The Sachakan chuckled, pleased at the flattery. “I have always said that of all slaves, good cooks are worth the extra expense. And horse trainers.”

Lorkin just managed to stop himself wincing at such a casual reference to buying people and was glad that Tariko said no more about it. After a discussion about foods native to Sachaka, in which Tariko recommended they try some dishes and avoid others, the Ashaki straightened his back.