The Ambassador's Mission

If that is the case, can a magician’s body heal away the effects of his or her own roet addiction? A magician’s body healed itself automatically, which meant he or she was rarely ill and often lived longer than non-magicians. If it can’t, then it’s possible a magician could become addicted to the drug.

But not straightaway, surely. Plenty of magicians and novices had tried roet and not become addicts. Perhaps only some people were susceptible to addiction. Or perhaps it had an accumulative effect – they had to take it several times before permanent damage was done.

Either way, it could have both tragic and dangerous consequences. Magicians addicted to roet might be bribed and controlled by their suppliers. And the suppliers are most likely criminals, or linked to the underworld.

Suddenly she remembered Regin’s assertion that novices and magicians of the highest classes were associating with criminals more often nowadays. She had believed the situation was no worse than it had always been. But was he right? And was roet the reason? A chill ran down her spine.

As another knock came from the door, she took a deep breath and put the thought aside. For now her concern was the sick of the lower classes. The Guild would have to deal with the consequences of the Houses’ more foolish members.

But it wouldn’t hurt to see if any of the other Healers – and even the hospice helpers – had heard of magicians becoming addicted to roet, or being drawn into the world of criminals. And it might be useful to have them ask a few questions of their patients, too. There’s nothing bored patients and their families like doing more, to pass the time, than gossiping.

Lorkin had no idea what time it was when the visitors finally left and he and Dannyl were free to retire for the night. Once the last guest had gone, they looked at each other and grimaced in relief.

“They’re friendlier than I expected,” Dannyl said.

Lorkin nodded in agreement. “I could sleep for a week.”

“From the sounds of it we’ll be lucky to have a day to recover from the journey. Best get some sleep while we can.” Dannyl turned to a slave – a young female who promptly threw herself face down on the floor. “Take Lord Lorkin to his rooms.”

She leapt up again, glanced at Lorkin once, then gestured to a doorway.

As Lorkin followed her through into a corridor, he felt his mood sink a little. Every time they do that it feels so

wrong. But is that only because I know they’re slaves? People bow to me because I’m a magician, and I don’t mind it. What’s the difference?

The people who bowed to him had a choice. They did so because it was considered good manners. Nobody was going to have them whipped or executed or whatever the Sachakans did to disobedient slaves.

The corridor curved to the left, following the odd circular shape of the Master’s Room. Now it split into two and the slave took the right-hand divergence. I wonder why they don’t make their walls straight. Is it easier to construct them this way? Or harder? I bet it leads to some odd little nooks here and there. He reached out to touch the smoothly rendered wall. It was strangely appealing. No harsh edges. The slave abruptly turned through a doorway. Lorkin followed and stopped in the middle of another oddly shaped room.

It was almost but not quite circular. It was lit by small lamps placed on stands around the room. The walls were decorated with hangings or carvings set within alcoves. Between each was a doorway. The centre of the room was furnished with stools and large cushions. His travel chest lay on the floor beside one of the doorways. The room beyond was also lit by lamps, revealing a bed which looked, to his relief, no different to an ordinary Kyralian bed.