The Ambassador’s Mission

But why a boy? None of the female slaves have been so forward. It was likely the Sachakan king’s spies would have looked into his background and picked up on his scandalous but not-so-secret preference for men in his bed instead of women. But that does not mean I’d take a mere child to bed. Or a slave, who had no choice in the matter. The latter thought repelled him, but the former filled him with disgust.

Has Lorkin received a similar offer? The question filled him with anxiety for a moment, but then he remembered the expression Lorkin always wore whenever a slave prostrated themselves in front of him. If he had, I don’t think he’d have taken it up. Still, I need to keep an eye on him.

But not tonight. It was late and Lorkin was probably long asleep. Dannyl ought to retire, too. There would be another Ashaki to visit and listen to tomorrow night, and the night after, and the list of matters of trade and diplomacy to sort out during daylight hours was starting to grow as well.

Yet when he did finally settle in his bed, he dreamed he was arguing with Tayend – who had somehow become a Sachakan Ashaki – about the stunningly handsome male slaves he owned. Do as the locals do, Tayend told him. We’d expect the same from them if they came to Kyralia. And remember, I’m not the first Guild magician to own slaves. Remember that, in the morning.

CHAPTER 13 THE TRAP

As the carriage stopped before the door to Regin’s home, Sonea felt a reluctance steal over her. She remained seated, while memories rose of being exhausted and helpless, tormented by a young novice and his friends in the depths of the University late at night.

Then she remembered that same novice backing away from a Sachakan Ichani, having volunteered to be the bait in a trap that could have easily gone wrong. And his words: “… if I live through all this, I’ll try to make it up to you.”

Had he? She shook her head.

After the war, many of Imardin’s powerful Houses had been anxious to replace the family members who had died in the battle, knowing that the more magicians each House had the greater the prestige. Regin had married soon after graduating, and the gossip about the Guild suggested he did not much like the wife his family had chosen for him.

He had done nothing unpleasant to Sonea since those early University days. Certainly none of the petty pranks of a novice, but also no moves against her as an adult. Twenty years had passed. So why did she feel this reluctance to face him in his own home? Was she still wary of him? Or was she worried that she would be rude out of her old habit of dislike and distrust of him? It was childish to resent him for things he’d done to her when he was young and foolish. Rothen was right that Regin had matured into a sensible man.

But old habits are as hard to shift as old stains, she thought.

Forcing herself to rise, she climbed out of the carriage. As always, she paused to take in her surroundings. She did not have the opportunity to see the city streets often.

Naturally, this street was a part of the Inner Circle, since Regin’s family and House were old and powerful and only the most rich and influential could afford to live this close to the Palace. It looked much the same as streets in the Inner Circle always had, with large two- and three-storey buildings – many showing subtle signs of repair work, or entirely new facades, completed soon after the Ichani Invasion.

Sonea turned her attention to the people walking the street. A few men and women strolled along it, their high status obvious from their clothing, and one magician. The rest were servants. But then she noticed a group of four men leaving a building at the end of the street and entering a carriage. Though they wore the finery of the rich, there was something about their stature and movements that brought to mind the confident brutality of street gangs.

I could just be imagining it, she told herself. Could be making connections only because I’ve heard Regin talking about criminal connections in the Houses so much lately.

Turning away, she walked up to the door of Regin’s house and knocked. A moment later the door opened and a slim, sour-faced servant bowed deeply before her.

“Black Magician Sonea,” he said in an unexpectedly deep voice. “Lord Regin is expecting you. I will take you to him.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He guided her through a large hall and up a curving staircase. Crossing a hall, they entered a large room filled with cushioned chairs, sunlight streaming in through tall windows on one side. The cloth covering the chairs, the paint on the walls and the paper screens were in bright, clashing colours.

Two people rose from their seats – Regin and a woman Sonea guessed was his wife. The woman approached Sonea with outstretched arms as if she meant to envelop her visitor in them, but at the last moment she clasped her hands together.

“Black Magician Sonea!” she exclaimed. “Such an honour to have you in our home.”

“This is Wynina, my wife,” Regin said.