The Ambassador’s Mission: Book One of the Traitor Spy Trilogy (18 page)

“I am Guild Ambassador Dannyl,” he said. “This is Lord Lorkin, my assistant. You may rise.”

The man climbed to his feet, keeping his gaze on the ground. “Welcome, Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin.”

“Thank you,” Dannyl replied automatically, remembering too late that such social habits were seen as amusing and foolish to the Sachakans. “Take us inside.”

The man gestured to a nearby door, then turned and walked through it. He glanced back to ensure they were following as he led the way down a corridor. Just as in Ashaki Tariko’s house, it led to a large room – the Master’s Room. But this room was abuzz with voices. Dannyl was surprised to find at least twenty men standing there, all in the highly decorated short jackets that Sachakan men wore as traditional formal attire. All turned to regard him as he entered, and the voices immediately fell silent.

“Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin,” the slave announced.

One of the men stepped forward, smiling. He had the typical broad-shouldered stature of his race, but there was a little grey in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave his face a cheerful expression. His jacket was a dark blue with gold stitchery, and there was an ornate knife in his belt.

“Welcome to Arvice, Ambassador Dannyl, Lord Lorkin,” he said, glancing at Lorkin briefly before turning his attention back to Dannyl. “I am Ashaki Achati. My friends and I have been waiting to greet you, and give you your first taste of Sachakan hospitality.”

Ashaki Achati.
Dannyl felt a small rush of excitement as he recalled the name.
A major political player, and friend to the Sachakan king.

“Thank you,” Dannyl replied. “I …” He looked at Lorkin and smiled. “We are flattered and honoured.”

Ashaki Achati’s smile widened. “Let me introduce you both to everyone.”

Voices filled the room again as Achati called over the rest of the men, individually or in pairs, to meet Dannyl. One portly man was introduced as the king’s Master of Trade; a short, stooped man turned out to be the Master of Law. The Master of War seemed a strange choice – thin for a Sachakan, and overly flippant in manner for such a weighty and serious role. The Master of Records’ friendliness seemed forced, but Dannyl picked up no dislike in his manner, just a hint of boredom.

“So do you have any plans to entertain yourself, when not buried in ambassadorial duties?” a man named Ashaki Vikato asked after they were introduced.

“I find the past fascinating,” Dannyl replied. “I would like to know more about Sachaka’s history.”

“Ah! Well you should talk to Kirota.” The man waved toward the Master of War. “He is always talking about some obscure bit of the past, or reading old books. What is a chore to most Sachakan boys is a pleasant pastime to him.”

Dannyl looked across at the thin man, who was grinning at something he was being told.

“Not the Master of Records?”

“No,” Ashaki Achati said, shaking his head. “Not unless you’re having trouble sleeping.”

Ashaki Vikato chuckled. “Old Richaki is more interested in recording the present than dredging up the past. Master Kirota!”

The thin man turned and then smiled as Vikato beckoned. He wove his way across the room.

“Yes, Ashaki Vikato?”

“Ambassador Dannyl has an interest in history. How would you suggest he go about satisfying it while he is in Arvice?”

Kirota’s eyebrows rose. “You do?” Then he frowned as he considered. “It isn’t easy to gain access to records or libraries,” he warned. “All our libraries are privately owned, and you have to get permission from Master Richaki to view the palace records.”

Achati nodded. “I’m on good terms with most of the library owners in Arvice.” He looked at Dannyl. “If you’d like, I can introduce you and see if we can gain access to some of them.”

“I would be most grateful if you did,” Dannyl replied.

Achati smiled. “It’ll be easy. They’ll all want to meet the latest Guild Ambassador. Only trouble you might have is getting them to leave you alone long enough to read anything. Is there any aspect of history that you are most interested in?”

“The older, the better. And …” Dannyl paused to consider how to phrase what he wanted to say. “While I’d like to fill the gaps in my knowledge of Sachakan history, I’m also interested in anything that might fill some of the gaps in Kryalian history as well.”

“You have gaps?” Kirota’s eyebrows rose again. “But then, don’t we all?” He smiled, the lines on his thin face deepening and making Dannyl realise the man was older than he’d first guessed. “Perhaps you can help me fill some of the gaps in ours as well, Ambassador Dannyl.”

Dannyl nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

As Achati looked around the room, perhaps to check if he’d neglected to introduce anyone yet, Dannyl realised that, despite being surrounded by black magicians, he felt perfectly at ease. These were men of power and influence, and he’d had plenty of dealings with such men in the past.
Perhaps this role should not be much harder than it was in Elyne. Not that that one was easy. And it seems black magic is no obstacle to having scholarly interests, too.
He felt a tingle of anticipation, thinking of the records he might stumble upon in these private libraries Achati had mentioned. Then he felt a twinge of guilt and sadness.
It would have been good to share the discoveries with Tayend. But I’m not sure he’d be that interested now. And for all that these men seem friendly, he is safer back in Kyralia.

The crowd outside the Northside Hospice was smaller than usual. Pale faces turned toward the carriage, eyes bright with hope but expressions guarded. As the vehicle turned and passed between the gates, Sonea sighed.

When the hospices had first opened, hordes of sick had gathered outside the doors, along with those hopeful of seeing the legendary slum magician, former exile and defender of Kyralia. Those not intimidated by her black robes had surrounded her, begging or babbling, making it difficult to get inside the hospice and do the work she needed to do. She could not bring herself to push them away with magic. Other Healers had experienced similar problems, as the sick not yet admitted to the hospice, or their families, begged and pleaded for help.

So enclosed carriageways had been built beside the hospices, with guards to man the gates, and a side entrance. They allowed Healers to arrive and get from carriage to hospice without being harassed.

Sonea waited until the guards called out to indicate all was clear, then climbed out of the carriage. As she turned to smile in thanks, the two guards bowed. She heard the side door to the hospice open.

“ … and it’s about time – oh!”

Sonea turned to see Healer Ollia staring at her in horror.

“Sorry, er, Black Magician Sonea. I was … we were …”

“It’s I who should be apologising.” Sonea smiled. “I’m late. Or rather, Healer Draven is. His mother has fallen ill, suddenly, so I’m stepping in for him.” She stepped aside and nodded to the carriage. “Go on. You must be tired.”

“Um. Thank you.” Flushed, Ollia hurried past and climbed into the vehicle.

Turning away, Sonea entered the hospice. A large room full of supplies with a central area of seating for exhausted Healers and helpers formed a sanctuary of privacy between the carriageway entrance and the public rooms. A young woman in green robes was sitting in one of the chairs, the edge of her mouth quirked up in a wry smile.

“Good evening, Black Magician Sonea,” Nikea said.

“Healer Nikea,” Sonea replied. She liked Nikea. The young Healer had first volunteered to help in the hospice not long after joining the Guild, and discovered a love of both healing and helping people. Her parents were servants for a family of one of the less powerful Houses. “Looks quiet here tonight.”

“More or less.” Nikea shrugged. “Did I hear right? You’re replacing Healer Draven?”

“Yes.”

Nikea rose. “Then I had better let Adrea know you’re here.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Sonea followed her through the door to the main part of the hospice, locking it behind her with magic. As they walked down the corridor, she listened to the sounds escaping the treatment rooms. Rasping breathing told her there was a patient with respiratory problems in one room, and groans from another doorway told of a painful condition. All rooms, as always, were occupied – some with both patient and the two family members that were allowed to stay with and help tend to them.

There were too few Healers willing to work in the hospices to treat the multitudes of sick visiting them, and between them they did not have enough power to meet the demand. But if all of the Healers of the Guild were made to work at them daily there still would not be enough. Sonea had known she would have to run these places with a limited supply of Healing power.

So they treated Healing power like a rare and powerful medicine. Only those people who would not survive without it were Healed with magic. The rest were treated with medicine and surgery.

This had revealed that the Guild’s Healers did not know as much about non-magical healing as they’d thought they did. Those Healers who had joined Sonea in treating the poor had begun to expand and develop fields of knowledge that had been long neglected. Some Healers still regarded non-magical healing as primitive and unnecessary, but Lady Vinara, Head of Healers, was not inclined to agree. She now sent novices favouring the Healing discipline to Sonea to learn both how to apply non-magical healing, and why it was still needed.

Turning into the main corridor, Nikea led Sonea to the front room of the hospice. A short, plump woman with grey in her hair paced the room, watching the people seated on benches around the walls with her arms crossed and a stern expression. Sonea suppressed a smile.

Adrea. One of our first non-magician helpers.

When the first hospice opened, Healers had spent as much of their time talking with everyone who entered to find out who was sick and who wasn’t as they did treating people. They had to decide how serious the illness or injury was, and pass the patient on to a Healer with the appropriate experience and knowledge. Soon Healers were complaining that they spend their time there herding people, not Healing them. They tried allocating the task instead to novices, but new novices were either too young or inexperienced to deal with distressed patients and their families, and older ones needed to learn something more than how to diagnose illnesses and ferry people about.

It had been Lady Vinara’s idea to circulate a request among the Houses for volunteers to help in the hospices. Sonea had expected no response, so she was surprised when three women had appeared at the door a few days later. She’d suddenly had to come up with useful tasks that weren’t too menial for women of the higher classes, but would not cause too many problems or damage if done badly.

Only one of those women had returned to the hospice after the first day, but after a few weeks Adrea had not only proven herself capable of being helpful but soon persuaded three other women – friends and relatives – to try out being “hospice helpers.”

A few weeks later more helpers began to arrive. Gossip about the original helpers had spread, and general opinion was that they should be admired for their noble sacrifice of time and willingness to risk personal safety for the benefit of the city. Suddenly it was fashionable to be a hospice helper and there was a flood of volunteers.

The reality of the work soon dampened the enthusiasm of fad-followers and the number of new volunteers settled to a steady rate. The helpers that remained not only continued to work at the hospices but organised themselves into shifts and held meetings to discuss new and better ways that non-magicians could help the poor and the Healers.

“Adrea,” Nikea called.

The woman turned and, seeing Sonea, bowed deeply. “Black Magician Sonea,” she said.

“Adrea,” Sonea replied. “I’m taking Healer Draven’s place tonight. Give me a few minutes, then send the first one in.”

The woman nodded. Turning back to face the corridor, Sonea took a step toward the Examination Room, then stopped and looked at Nikea.

“Nothing needs any special attention out here?” she asked, gesturing down the corridor to the patient rooms.

Nikea shook her head. “Nothing we can’t handle. There are three of us working the rooms. All the patients have been fed and half of them are probably asleep already. I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

Sonea nodded. She moved to the first door to the left and opened it. The room inside was large enough for two chairs, a locked cupboard and a narrow bed along one wall. It was dark, so she created a globe light and sent it hovering near the centre of the ceiling.

Sitting down on one of the chairs, she took a deep breath and readied herself for the first of the patients. Adrea would ring a gong if anyone arrived who needed immediate treatment. The rest came to the Examination Room, where a Healer examined and questioned them before either Healing them with magic or treating them with medicine or minor surgery. If major surgery was needed but not urgent they arranged for the patient to return another day.

A knock came from the door. Sonea drew a little magic and sent it out to the handle, turning and tugging it inward. The man standing beyond looked surprised as he saw nobody standing behind the door, despite having visiting the hospice several times before.

“Stoneworker Berrin,” Sonea said. “Come in.”

He looked relieved to see her. He bowed, closed the door, moved to the chair and sat down.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” he said.

She nodded. “How are you?”

Rubbing his hands together, he paused to think before answering.

“I don’t think it worked,” he finally said.

Sonea regarded him thoughtfully. He had first come to the hospice nearly a year before, refusing to say what was wrong with him. She’d assumed something embarrassing and private, but what he’d revealed, slowly and reluctantly, was an addiction to roet.

It had taken some courage to admit it, she knew. He was the sort of man who worked hard and prided himself on doing “honest” work. But when his wife had died bearing their first child, which hadn’t survived, he had been so wrapped up in grief and guilt that he’d tried the wares of a rot-seller with a persuasive tongue. By the time the pain had receded enough that he could resume his former work he found he could not give up the drug.