The Ambassador’s Mission: Book One of the Traitor Spy Trilogy (22 page)

A slave arrived with food and drink. Lorkin ate quickly, then launched into his work again. When he’d finally read everything in the cabinet, he realised several hours had passed. He looked at his notebook and felt a vague disappointment.
I’m not sure I found anything particularly useful, but perhaps Dannyl will see something I haven’t.

As he reached out to close the cabinet doors, he realised he was still holding the book he’d been using as a support for his notebook. Opening it, he saw it was another record book. It appeared to continue where the last one had ended, but only a third of the pages contained text. Lorkin started to read the last entry. Immediately his skin began to prickle. The writing was short and hurried.

“
Terrible news. The Storestone is missing. Lord Narvelan has also disappeared and many believe he is the thief. The fool knows it is essential to our control over the Sachakans. I must leave now and join the search for him.”

The blank pages after the entry were suddenly rife with questions and possibilities. Why hadn’t the magician resumed his record-keeping? Had he died? Had he confronted this Lord Narvelan and perished as a result?

And what is this “Storestone” that is so essential to the Guild’s control of Sachaka? Was it recovered? If it wasn’t, was that the reason Kyralia gave control of Sachaka back to its people?

And if it was never recovered, what happened to it? Did some magical object exist that was powerful enough to keep a nation – a feared
empire
of black magicians – subjugated? Lorkin sat back down on the stool and began to copy out the entry.

I’m right. There
is
some sort of ancient magic that could help protect Kyralia. It’s been lost for over seven hundred years, and I’m going to find it.

Gol had done his research well. The shop was the kind that bought and sold the belongings of debtors and the desperate. It was also located in a part of the city where Cery was unlikely to be recognised. In one corner, paper window screens of all sizes and shapes leaned against the wall. Coats and cloaks hung on racks and shoes sat in pairs below them. All manner of pottery, glass, metal and stone domestic vessels and objects crowded shelves behind the owner’s chair and side bench. And a heavy, decorative ironwork cage protected trays of jewellery – though from the look of it most was badly made or fake.

Another set of shelves held books of all sizes. Some were bound with paper, the threads of the binding exposed and fraying. Some were bound in leather and, of those, most were worn and cracked, but a few gleamed with newness.

“Books on
magic
, then?” the pawnshop owner said, his voice rising in volume but dropping in tone. He chuckled. “I get a few from time to time. Oh, you won’t find any there, young man.”

Cery turned to find the man looking at him. The man’s smile faltered for a moment as he realised his error.

“The Guild takes them off you?” Cery asked.

The man shook his head. “No, the Guard come by now and then to check but I’m not fool enough to put something like that on display. And the books go too quickly. In and out. My regular customers know they have to come quick when I let them know something’s arrived, if they want to be the one that gets it.”

“How do you get hold of them – if you don’t mind me asking?”

The man shrugged. “Mostly I get ’em from novices. The ones that come from around here. For some reason they can’t send money direct to their families, so they steal books and sell them to me, and I pass on the money.”

“For a fee,” Cery finished.

The man shook his head. “Oh, I make a good enough profit on selling them. I treat my novices good, ’cause there’s plenty of others they could go to if I didn’t.” He scowled. “Of course, some of ’em try to get me to pass the money on to rot sellers instead. I won’t have any of that. Nasty people, those. Don’t want anything to do with them.”

“Me neither,” Cery replied. “How do you know if a book is real or a fake?”

The man straightened. “Many years’ experience. And a couple spent working in the Guild when I was a young man.”

“Really? You worked for the Guild?” Cery leaned toward the man. “What you get kicked out for?”

The man crossed his arms. “Did I say I got kicked out?”

Cery gave the man a hard look. “You
left
a job like that?”

The seller hesitated, then shrugged. “Didn’t like being told what to do all the time. As my late wife said, it doesn’t suit everyone. ‘Makkin the Buyer’ is a name that suits me best. Better to be Makkin my fortune than Makkin anyone’s dinner or beds.” He chuckled.

“Fair enough,” Cery said. “I don’t think I could put up with it either. So … when do you think you might get some new books? And what sort can I get?”

Makkin’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “They arrive when they arrive. Sometimes you wait days, sometimes weeks. I can try to get my novices to steal what you want, but it’s not always possible – or else it takes longer. Price depends on difficulty, and I have to warn you, sometimes one of my more, erm, influential customers takes an interest and buys out everything I have, no matter who ordered it.” The man rubbed his hands together. “What were you after in particular?”

“Something … unusual. Rare. On a particular subject. I don’t care what, just not beginner’s books.”

The man nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Call back in a few days and I’ll tell you what my boys have or can get.” He beamed at Cery. “Always nice to have a new customer.”

Cery nodded. “Always.” He tilted his head to one side a little. “I don’t suppose you can tell us who your other customers are. Just so I know who I’m up against.”

Makkin shook his head. “Wouldn’t be in business long if I did that.”

“No, I suppose not.” Cery turned toward the door, then looked thoughtful and turned back. “Just curious, but how much would a man have to offer you to be worth risking it?”

“I like being alive too much to even think about it.”

Cery raised his eyebrows. “You must have
very
influential customers.”

The man smiled. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

Holding back a laugh, Cery turned away. Gol strode forward to open the door for him, and they both stepped out into the street.

It was nearing sunset, and the people still out and about were walking with a hunched and intent stride, no doubt looking forward to getting to their destination. A few steps past the shop, Cery crossed the road and moved into the shadow of the opposite buildings. Then he stopped and looked back.

“What are you thinking?” Gol asked. “You have that look.”

“I’m thinking that Makkin and his shop might be a good location for our trap.”

“So do we arrange for something special to fall into his hands and see who comes to get it, or do we wait until something real comes in?”

“I doubt he’d tell us first, if he got real books. We need to be in control of the transaction as much as possible, and by arranging for the fakes to reach him we can time it to our plans. Though … we have to give our quarry reason to use magic to get hold of it. I wonder … he said he keeps them out of sight. A safebox, perhaps?”

“I’ll find out. It would make it easier to be sure Makkin doesn’t sell the books to anyone else. Hopefully that’ll force the Hunter to break in to get it.”

“And use magic.” Cery nodded. “We’ll need a safe place to watch from. And make sure we can get away if things go wrong or Makkin works out what’s going on.”

Gol nodded. “I’ll look into it.”

It was late when Dannyl finally walked through the door to his rooms at the Guild House. He’d spent the evening visiting an old Ashaki who insisted on filling Dannyl in on the trading exploits of all his ancestors, and was overly gleeful at their success at cheating other traders to the point of ruin.

He glanced into the side room he and past Ambassadors used as an office and, seeing something new on the desk, stopped and looked closer. A notebook lay there. He walked into the room and picked it up. Opening the pages, he recognised Lorkin’s handwriting and suddenly the weariness he’d felt these last few hours lifted.

At some point a previous Ambassador had purchased or had made for the office an ordinary chair with a back. Dannyl sat down with an appreciative sigh and began to read. The first passages Lorkin had copied out were from the record that Dannyl had skimmed through. There weren’t many entries, he noted, and he felt a pang of worry as he realised the young man hadn’t copied out the entry about the house in Imardin. Dannyl hadn’t mentioned it, curious to see if Lorkin would notice.

But it wasn’t an obvious clue. Lorkin will, no doubt, see different things. While he won’t pick up everything I would have, he may find things I wouldn’t.

Sending Lorkin in Dannyl’s place had been a brilliant solution to the problem of being unable to visit important Sachakans twice in a row for fear of showing undue political favour. Nothing would be the same as doing the research personally, but having Lorkin do it for him at least gave him some material to examine and consider until he was free to do it himself.

Reading on, he felt his excitement at having new information slowly ebb. There was little more here of use. Then Lorkin’s handwriting suddenly became bolder and angular, with one word repeatedly underlined. Dannyl read and then reread the copied-out record, and Lorkin’s speculations, and felt his mood lift again.

Lorkin is right. This “storestone” is clearly important. Though he is assuming it is a magical object. It might be something with political value – an object that states the possessor is important, like a king’s band or a religious leader’s treasure.

The name “Narvelan” was familiar, but he could not remember why. He rubbed his forehead and realised he had a growing headache and was thirsty. The meal had been excessively salty, and the only drink offered had been wine. Looking through the doorway into the main room, he saw that there was a slave standing against the far wall.

“Fetch me some water, will you?” he called.

The young man hurried away. Dannyl turned back to Lorkin’s notes, rereading and trying to remember where he’d heard the name “Narvelan” before. Hearing the slave return, he looked up. Instead of the previous young man, a boy stood there, holding out a jug and a glass.

Dannyl hesitated, then took them, wondering why he was now being served by a different slave. The boy looked down, avoiding his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered who decided which slaves did what. Probably the slave master, who had introduced himself on the first day. Lord Maron had explained that the slaves actually belonged to the king, but were “on loan” to the Guild House. This prevented the Guild from breaking the law against Kyralians enslaving others while in Sachaka – a rule that was designed to prevent Kyralians getting to like the idea and trying to introduce it in their homeland.

The boy bit his lip then took a step toward Dannyl.

“Does my master wish for company in bed tonight?” he asked.

Dannyl felt his insides freeze, then a wave of horror rushed over him.

“No,” he said quickly and firmly. Then he added: “You may leave, now.”

The boy left, showing neither relief nor disappointment in his walk or posture. Dannyl shuddered.
Just when I’m getting used to seeing slaves everywhere …
But perhaps it was better not to grow too comfortable. Perhaps it was good to be reminded of how barbaric the Sachakan people could be.

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.

A
s 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.