Reaching the store, Hanara entered and removed the tablet from his tunic. The store master was absent, so he rang the bell. Bregar shuffled into the room from a door at the back, his scowl softening into a frown when he saw Hanara. The man didn’t trust Hanara, but he never mocked him either. He reached out to take the tablet.
Bregar was a big man for a Kyralian. Hanara suspected there was quite a bit of Sachakan in his bloodline. As he watched, the store master piled up solid blocks of a glossy substance on a table, then bags of grain and a heavy ceramic jar, its stopper sealed generously with wax. All the items were for the stables, which made sense, but Hanara had noticed that he had never been sent – as other stable servants often were – to collect food for the Residence or to take items to be sharpened to the metal worker.
Bregar handed back the tablet. The pile on the table was large, and the store master set about packing everything into a wooden crate. Seeing this, Hanara dropped the tablet down his tunic front again. He would need both hands to carry the crate. As Bregar lifted the container, Hanara bent over and indicated that the man should place it on his shoulders. He straightened up, and the man frowned and made a questioning grunt.
Hanara nodded. The store master shrugged and opened the door.
Outside the light of day was failing. As Hanara started back towards the Residence, he mused that the grunt had been the closest thing to a conversation that he’d ever had with Bregar. He didn’t mind. Slaves tended to be as reticent. Chatter got you into trouble.
Halfway to the Residence something stung Hanara’s arm. He flinched and kept walking. This often happened when he was out in the village alone. Usually when the two young louts were about.
He hadn’t gone much further when he heard footsteps coming closer. As the two young men approached he felt his stomach sink. They were an irritation most of the time, but if they made him drop his burden and something broke there would be trouble back at the stables.
He kept walking. The pair moved to either side, keeping pace.
“Hanara,” one said. “Do you have a wife back in Sachaka?”
As always, he stayed silent. Kept walking.
“Do you miss her? Do you miss bedding her?”
“Does your Sachakan master do that now?”
One foot in front of the other. Their taunting was meaningless. They knew too little to hurt him. The benefit of not being allowed to care for anyone was that there was nobody that could be used against you.
“Or did he do that with you?”
It was a strange saying, this “bedding”. As if the act of human breeding was done with mattresses rather than body parts.
“I bet he’ll get into trouble if he drops those boxes.”
“That’s stuff for the Residence,” the other said.
“So? Lord Dakon can afford to replace it if it breaks. But Hanara here can’t afford to do anything wrong, or he’ll get kicked out.”
The cartway entrance was only a hundred paces away. Hanara felt a shove from one side. He swayed, keeping the load balanced. There was a shove from the other side. This time he stepped on one of the lout’s feet as he swerved. The young man swore.
“Stupid slave,” he snarled. Stepping in front of Hanara, he slammed his fist into Hanara’s stomach.
There was a crack. The young man recoiled, his face distorted in open-mouthed pain. Hanara felt the tablet shift as broken pieces fell downward to settle against his belt. He stepped round the lout and continued on his way.
From behind he heard the other lout asking what had happened.
“Don’t know. It’s like he was wearing armour. Ouch! My thumb feels like it’s broken.”
Hanara smiled. He stepped into the cartway, then couldn’t resist turning and looking back towards the village. But before he could make out the two louts in the gloom, something else caught his eye.
Beyond the village, on the ridge above, a blue light was blinking slowly in and out of existence.
His blood went cold.
Turning, he fled down the cartway to the stables, his heart racing. He couldn’t read the writing on the broken tablet down his shirt, but he was able to decode the pulsing light on the hill. The pattern represented one word. One order.
Report.
Takado had returned.
The master’s room of Everran’s house smelled of marin flowers, a crisp yet rich scent that gave the space a mood both lively and meditative. Dakon and Jayan had settled onto one of the bench chairs. They hadn’t seen Tessia or Avaria yet today. The two women had left early to explore the city, and would spend the afternoon with one of Avaria’s friends.
Everran had vanished, but now he re-entered the room rubbing his hands together eagerly.
“Our visitors should begin arriving soon.”
Dakon nodded. His father and Everran’s grandfather had been cousins, so they had a link through family ties, albeit a distant one. Dakon had continued his father’s custom of staying with Everran’s father when visiting Imardin. Then, when the man died five years ago from a seizure of the heart, his son insisted on taking over the role of Dakon’s host when he visited Imardin.
Everran was a likeable and smart young man. He had come into his inheritance too young, but he had shouldered the burden with admirable maturity, and had a good grasp of politics. It had pleased Dakon when Everran had joined the Circle of Friends, and not just because he liked the young magician. It was heartening to see that some city magicians were as concerned about the threat from Sachaka as the country lords, and willing to support their cause.
“What are they expecting?” Dakon asked. “Will they be wanting information? News?”
Everran shrugged. “No. It’s unlikely you’ll know anything they don’t already. We’ll be discussing how you should approach the king.”
“All advice is welcome.” Dakon grimaced wryly. “It’s been a long time since I met the king, and then it wasn’t on official business.”
“It’s in all our interests that you succeed. They – ah, here’s the first of them now.”
Footsteps drew their attention to the passage leading from the front entrance of the house. Everran rose and Dakon and Jayan followed suit. A short, slightly overweight man with grey in his black hair appeared, escorted by Lerran the doorman. He paused to smile and nod to Everran, and then to Dakon as Everran introduced him.
“This is Magician Wayel of the Paren family, the new trade master.”
“Congratulations. I hope it has been a smooth transition.”
Wayel shrugged. “As smooth as can be expected.”
“What is Lord Gregar up to now?” Dakon asked.
“Resting at home.” At Everran’s urging, they moved to the benches and sat down again. “I’ve heard he isn’t well. Some say he gave away the position too early and is expiring of boredom, but I’ve been told that he might have quit because he was unwell. Perhaps dying.”
Thinking of the energetic old man whose task it had been to settle trading disputes between the leys, Dakon felt a pang of sadness. Men like Lord Gregar, efficient and intelligent, were hard to find. He hoped Magician Wayel would live up to his predecessor’s standards, though he didn’t envy the man the demands of the job.
Laughter echoed down the corridor. Two men were ushered into the room. All rose to greet the newcomers.
“Lord Prinan is here on behalf of his father, Lord Ruskel,” Everran told Dakon. “Lord Bolvin is from Eyren ley.”
Lord Ruskel’s ley was located at the south-eastern end of the mountains bordering Sachaka. It had been Ruskel who had stumbled upon the three “lost” Sachakan magicians in his land, Dakon remembered. Prinan was a young, newly independent magician, trained by his father. He greeted Dakon with nervous deference. Dakon noted that Everran had adopted the new habit of using the title “Lord” for an heir to a ley or house, helping to indicate which offspring would inherit. It was a new custom, which he’d noticed becoming popular during his last few city visits. He wasn’t sure he liked it.