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.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Sonea told Wynina.
The woman beamed. “I have heard so much about you. It’s not often we have a historical figure in our home.”
Sonea tried to think of something appropriate to say in reply, but couldn’t. The woman flushed, then put a hand to her mouth. “Well,” she said, looking from Regin to Sonea. “You two have serious matters to discuss. I’ll leave you be.”
She moved to the door, turned back to smile at Sonea, then disappeared into the corridor beyond. Regin chuckled.
“She’s quite intimidated by you,” he said in a low voice, gesturing to the chairs in an invitation to sit.
“Really?” Sonea moved to one of the chairs and sat down. “She didn’t seem it.”
“Oh, she’s normally much more verbose.” He smiled thinly. “But I imagine there is something more important you have come to discuss?”
“Yes.” Sonea paused to take a deep breath. “I have been questioning Healers and helpers at the hospices, and it has led me to agree with you: it would be harmful to abolish the rule against associating with criminals.”
She had decided not to mention her suspicions about roet’s potential to permanently affect magicians’ bodies. When she had mentioned her suspicion to Lady Vinara the woman had been politely disbelieving. It would take a lot more than one stoneworker’s claims to convince magicians that they couldn’t Heal away the drug’s effects. Until Sonea had the time to test her theory, she would have to keep the idea to herself. And even if she did prove it, there were some in the Guild who would blame the lower classes for the problem, and that would only worsen the situation the rule had put the “lowies” in.
Regin straightened, his eyebrows rising slightly. “I see.”
“But I still believe the rule is unfair to novices and magicians from the lower classes,” Sonea continued, “and that we must do something to resolve that, or we are going to lose talented and powerful novices – or worse, invite rebellion.”
Regin nodded. “I have come to agree with you on this. And for quite opposite reasons I feel we must ensure that those magicians charged with ensuring the rule is obeyed and punishing those who break it do so fairly and without favour.”
“The rule must be changed, not abolished,” Sonea concluded.
“I agree.”
They regarded each other in expectant silence, then Sonea found herself smiling. “Well, that was easier than I thought.”
He chuckled. “Yes. Now we face the hard part. How should the rule be changed and how are we going to convince the Higher Magicians – or the rest of the Guild – to vote the way we want them to vote?”
“Hmm.” Sonea frowned. “It might be easier to plan our approach if we knew who was going to be voting.”
Regin steepled his fingers together. “Osen will be more likely to decide the way we want him to swing if we both suggest the same thing. We must go to him, separately, and tell him our preference. Or you must persuade Lord Pendel to, as he is the leader of those seeking the abolition of the rule.”
Sonea nodded. “I think he will listen to me. But I will have to give him a good reason to suggest one way or the other. And you?”
“I will do what I can to soften the stance of the opposed. We must explore the advantages and disadvantages of both possibilities thoroughly, so we are ready for all arguments raised against us.”
“Yes. Though we need to consider a different approach according to who we need to convince: either the Higher Magicians or the whole Guild. I suspect, given the choice between abolition of the rule, retaining it or changing it, most of the Higher Magicians would vote to keep things as they are.”
“You’re probably right. Putting the vote to the whole Guild may have a less predictable outcome, but will most likely lead to seeking a compromise – which will be to change the rule. How to change the rule will be the main focus of the debate.”
“Yes.” Sonea smiled crookedly. “Which brings us back to the hardest question: how do we want to change the rule?”
Regin nodded. “Well, I have a few ideas. Shall I go first?”
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
As he began to explain the changes he’d considered, Sonea could not help feeling a reluctant admiration for the careful thought he’d put into the problem. It was clear he’d been thinking about it for much longer than the few weeks the issue had been d
ebated around the Guild. Yet, unlike some of the women and men she had questioned, the solutions he was suggesting were practical and unbiased. Where is the arrogant, prejudiced snob that I knew as a novice? Is he simply better at hiding it now?
Or had he changed? Even if he had, it would take more than a few clever solutions to a class problem within the Guild to convince her to trust him. No matter what he said, she would always be waiting for the cruel side she knew Regin possessed to surface again.
After Dannyl had left for the evening, and the slaves had served dinner, Lorkin had returned to his rooms. There wasn’t a lot of work for him to do as Dannyl’s assistant yet. Apart from the one visit to Ashaki Itoki’s home, he hadn’t left the Guild House. Only a small part of the work that Dannyl tackled during the day could be handed on to Lorkin.
He spent the evenings reading or questioning the slaves. The latter was proving harder than he expected. While the slaves always responded to his questions, they offered no more than the most basic answer. If he asked them if there was anything else he needed to know they looked confused and anxious.
But it’s probably impossible for them to know what I need to know, he thought. And they’re reluctant to guess in case they get it wrong and it angers me. Initiative is probably a trait discouraged in a slave.
He had a feeling that the dark-eyed girl who had first taken him to his room – Tyvara – might be more receptive, though he wasn’t sure why. She hadn’t served him since that first night, however. Tonight he had nothing pressing to do, so he’d asked the slave serving him to bring her to him.
They probably all think I want to bed her, he mused, remembering her misunderstanding the first night. Tyvara probably will, too. I’ll have to reassure her that isn’t my intention. Is there any way I can encourage her to talk freely?
He looked around and his eyes settled on the cupboard containing wine and glasses for his own use or entertaining guests. Before he could cross the room to collect them, he saw a movement in the doorway. Tyvara stepped into the room and approached him, stopping several steps away to prostrate herself.
“Rise, Tyvara,” he told her. She stood, and her gaze remained on the floor. Her face was expressionless, and he was not sure if it was his imagination that made her seem a little tense. “Fetch me two glasses and some wine,” he ordered.
She obeyed, her movements quick but graceful. He sat down on one of the stools in the centre of the room and waited for her. She placed the glasses and a bottle on the floor, then knelt beside them.
“Open it,” he instructed. “And fill both of them. One is for you.”
Her hands had begun to reach toward the bottle, but now hesitated. Then they continued in the tasks required of them. When both glasses were full she lifted one and handed it to him. He took it and gestured to the other.
“Drink. I have some questions for you. Only questions,” he added. “Hopefully nothing that will compromise you in any way. If I ask anything that will get you in trouble by answering, tell me that instead.”
She looked at the glass, then picked it up with obvious reluctance. He sipped. She followed suit, and the muscles around her mouth twitched into a faint grimace.
“You don’t like wine?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Oh.” He cast about. “Then don’t drink it. Put it aside.”
There was a definite air of dislike to the way she set it down as far away from herself as she could stretch. He took another mouthful from his own glass, considering what to ask next.
“Is … is there any way I should be behaving toward the slaves here that I am … I am neglecting … or getting wrong?”
She shook her head quickly. Too quickly. He reconsidered the question.
“Is there any way I could improve my interaction with the slaves here? Make things more efficient? Easier?”
Again, she shook her head, but not as quickly.
“Am I making a total fool of myself when interacting with slaves?”
The slightest hint of a smile touched her lips, then she shook her head once more.
“You hesitated then,” he pointed out, leaning toward her. “There’s something, isn’t there? I’m not making a fool of myself, but instead I’m doing something unnecessary or silly, aren’t I?”
She paused, then shrugged.
“What is it?”
“You don’t need to thank us,” she said.
Her melodic, husky voice was a revelation after all the silent gestures. He felt a shiver run down his spine. If she wasn’t a slave, I think I’d find her immensely fascinating. And if she wasn’t dressed in that awful wrap dress, probably quite attractive as well.
But he hadn’t called her here to romance her.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s a habit – what we consider good manners in Kyralia. But if it makes things easier, I’ll try not to do it.”
She nodded.
What next? “Other than thanking slaves unnecessarily, is there anything I or Dannyl have been doing in our interaction with slaves that would make us look foolish to free Sachakans?”
She frowned, and her mouth opened, but then she seemed to freeze. He saw her eyes roaming about the floor, focusing as close to him as his feet, then flickering away. She is afraid of how I’ll respond to her answer.
“The truth will not anger me, Tyvara,” he said gently. “Instead it may be a great help to us.”
She swallowed, then bowed her head even further.
“You will lose status if you do not take a slave to bed.”
He felt a flash of shock, then of amusement. Questions flooded his mind. Did he and Dannyl care about losing status for such a reason? Should they? But then, how damaging was their inaction? Had previous Guild Ambassadors and assistants bedded the slaves here?
But, more importantly, how would free Sachakans know if the new Guild Ambassador and his assistant bedded their slaves or not?
Clearly such information isn’t kept a secret. The slaves here are, after all, the Sachakan king’s possessions. It would be stupid to think our prowess in the bedroom wasn’t discussed and judged.
And then he smiled, thinking of all those powerful Sachakan Ashaki gossiping like old women.
He should find out what the consequences were, while he had Tyvara talking.
“How much status will we lose?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I cannot say. I only know they will not respect you as much.”
Does that mean none of the previous Guild House occupants found this out, because none of them refused the opportunity? He looked at Tyvara. If only she would look at me. And look at me without hesitation or subservience. To see her stand straight and tall with confidence and fearlessness, or for those dark eyes to express true, willing desire, I would take her to bed without hesitation. But this … I couldn’t do it. Not even to help Dannyl gain respect in the Ashaki’s eyes.
And it was unlikely Dannyl was taking any of the female slaves to bed either.
“I don’t care about status,” he told Tyvara. “A man should be judged by his integrity, not by how many women he takes to bed – slave or free, willing or otherwise.”
She glanced up at him for the briefest moment, an intense look in her eyes, but quickly dropped her head again. He saw her teeth flash as they pressed against her lower lip, then she grimaced.
“What is it?” he asked. She is afraid. How does this affect her? Of course! She will be punished if it is thought she didn’t please me. “What will they do to you?”
“They will … they will send someone else. And another.” And they will all be punished, her words seemed to hint.
He bit back a curse. “If they do, I will ask for you. If you want me to, of course,” he added. “We will talk. Tell each other about ourselves and our countries, or something. I don’t see how I’m going to learn about Sachaka otherwise, shut up in the Guild House – and I’d really like to know more about your people. And yourself. How does that sound? Will it work?”
She paused, then nodded. Relieved, he took in a deep breath and let it out again. “So tell me something about yourself, then. Where were you born?”
Even as she began to describe the breeding house where she had been raised, he felt the horror of her story eased by something inexplicable. She was talking to him. Finally a Sachakan was actually communicating with him beyond orders and answers. It had never occurred to him that he might be lonely in Sachaka. Listening to her, he realised she suddenly seemed much more human – something he might come to regret later. But for now he relaxed and listened to the beautiful, hypnotic voice of this slave woman, and savoured every word.
The roof of the pawnshop was surprisingly well constructed. Cery and Gol had crawled out on it a few hours ago, when the full darkness of night had set in. They’d separated the tiles they’d sent a street urchin up to loosen for them earlier that day, and now were looking through cracks between them down at the room where Makkin the Buyer kept his safebox.
Inside that safebox were Makkin’s most valuable books, including a new volume about Healing magic. After visiting the shop, pretending to view the book for the first time and making sure Makkin didn’t sell it before Cery could return with the money for it, Cery had visited a few of the drinking establishments they patronised to boast about the special volume he’d be buying just as soon as someone paid their debt to him – which would probably be tomorrow.
It could be a long night, Cery thought, carefully stretching the stiffness out of one leg. But if all goes to plan we won’t have to lie out here in the night air for more than one. We just have to hope the Thief Hunter is a magician … and has the hunger for knowledge we assume he has … and has heard about my boasting today … and hasn’t got something more important to do tonight.
Cery had to admit he was acting on only rumour and guesses. He could easily be wrong about a great number of things. The magician that had opened the locks in Cery’s hideout might not be the Thief Hunter. He might have been in the employ of the Thief Hunter, or someone else. He might not be a customer of Makkin’s.