“The roof is unstable here,” Anyi said. Looking up, Cery noted the cracks in the walls and the slight sag in the roof. Fine roots matted the passage ceiling — perhaps from a tree above.
“If we have to use this escape route, and Lilia is with us,” Anyi continued, “we could get her to collapse it when we’re all far enough past, to stop anyone following us. Or we could rig it up to collapse. Lilia could help us by supporting it with magic while we install weights and ropes that we can operate from further down the tunnel.”
Cery nodded. I like the way she thinks. “We’ll ask her.”
“Now, where does this go?” Anyi grinned and hurried past the unstable area, leading Cery down an increasingly deteriorated passage. It ended not at a tunnel entrance, but where a tree had fallen through the roof and blocked the way. A weak, grey light filtered through a hole between two of the great roots. Bricks and rubble, smoothed by accumulated dirt and moss, provided a rough ramp up which Anyi scrambled.
She peered out, then looked back at him and beckoned. Picking his way up to her, he took her place and peered up through the hole.
A forest surrounded him, lit by pre-dawn light. He sighed as he remembered taking Sonea through the Guild forest many years ago — before she had been captured by the magicians — so she could watch magic being performed and perhaps learn to control her powers. It hadn’t worked, of course. Only another magician can teach a novice how to handle magic safely. But they hadn’t known that then.
So much has changed, Cery thought, but thankfully the forest is still here. He extinguished his lamp and set it down, then climbed out of the hole. Anyi followed.
“Where in the Guild do you think we are?” she whispered.
He shrugged. “Probably north of the buildings, since the southern part of the grounds are hillier than this.”
“The servant quarters are to the north.”
“Yes.”
“We might find discarded things there. Furniture. Blankets.”
“We might.”
Cery moved away from the tree, then looked back and slowly circled it, trying to fix the image of it in his mind. Neither he nor Anyi were used to navigating their way through a forest, and he could see it would be easy to get lost and not find the tunnel opening again. Fortunately the tree did look a little different from the others, thanks to it being half dead, partly sunk into the ground and leaning at an angle.
Turning away, Cery led the way through the trees, counting his steps and noting they were moving downhill. He knew the ground rose up from the Inner Wall to behind and above the Guild buildings, so he guessed he was heading west. After several hundred strides he discovered he was wrong. The slope met another and, in the crease between, a little stream flowed off to the right. Oh well, at least the stream is something we can follow. It should take us downhill, at least. He marked the place by moving some stones into a circle and a line pointing back the way they’d come, then headed downstream.
It was not long before they saw signs of habitation ahead. Creeping forward, they made out simple shacks and fences. “Servants quarters?” Anyi murmured.
Cery shook his head. “Too shabby.” The ramshackle appearance of the buildings was puzzling. A few large structures appeared to be made from glass, but from the overgrown look of the vegetation inside he guessed they were abandoned. It wasn’t until they finally drew close enough to see what the fences surrounded that he worked out where they were.
“The farm.”
“Ah. Of course.” Anyi pointed. “Is that an orchard over there?”
He looked in the direction she indicated and nodded as he made out rows of carefully pruned trees and arches of berry vines. Next to them were small fenced areas of ground, the earth grooved as if someone had run a very large rake along them.
“The question is: does anybody live here?” he murmured.
Anyi glanced at him. “Let’s take a closer look.”
They moved closer, hiding behind trees and then the long arched rows of berries. The shacks were spaced along the other side of the crops. Cery’s heart sank as he noticed smoke wafting out of a chimney. Further away, a woman in servant’s clothing had emerged from one of the shacks. He watched as she disappeared into what looked like a rassook pen.
“Looks occupied to me,” Anyi said. “Want to move further along?”
Cery nodded. Retreating to the edge of the forest to take advantage of the undergrowth, they made their way along the length of the farm. He was right about the rassook pen. At the end of the crops and buildings there were larger open fields where enka, reber and even a few big, lumbering gorin grazed.
Not enough to feed the Guild, he noted, but they’re making use of what space they have.
“Over there,” Anyi said, pointing to the last of the buildings.
He looked, and realised it wasn’t the building she was indicating, but a collection of old wooden furniture. Mismatched chairs circled a plank set upon tree stumps. Benches had been constructed out of scrap timber and placed on old barrels.
“We could use some of that straw to make mattresses,” Anyi said, pointing toward a shelter under which several bundles had been piled. “I saw it done at the market. You need some old sacks and a needle and thread.”
“You can sew?”
“Not very well, but we need mattresses, not ball gowns.”
Cery chuckled. “Just as well, eh? I remember your mother couldn’t get you to wear a dress. I don’t think even the king could get you to wear a ball gown.”
“Not a chance,” Anyi replied. “Not even if he was the handsomest man in the world.”
“Pity,” Cery said. “It would be nice to see you all dressed up. Just once.”
“I’d settle for a change of clothes.” Anyi narrowed her eyes at the huts. “I wonder how many people live here, and what they wear. Probably servant uniforms. I suppose it would be handy to look like servants whenever we sneak out of the tunnels.” She pursed her lips. “I’ll come back here later and spy on them for a bit, if that’s fine with you.”
“Good idea. But stay in the forest and don’t try to steal anything yet.” Cery nodded. “For that we’ll come back at night.”
Dannyl stared out of the carriage window, not registering the view outside as he braced himself for the morning’s dismissal.
Lorkin had been in the palace prison for only three days, but it felt much longer. Of course, it probably feels even longer to Lorkin. Ashaki Achati hadn’t visited again. Dannyl couldn’t decide if he was relieved or regretful about that. Any meeting with Achati was likely to be tense and full of resentment and awkwardness over the situation with Lorkin, but Dannyl missed Achati’s company and longed for his advice.
It’s a pity he’s so close to the king. If only I’d made friends with a Sachakan in a more neutral position. He’d have been able to tell me how best to deal with the situation.
Were any of the Ashaki in a neutral position, politically? From what Dannyl had learned, most were either loyal to the king or were allied with Ashaki who would happily seize the reins of power if they had the chance — which they were not likely to get. King Amakira’s position was secure, supported by most of the powerful Ashaki.
As the carriage pulled up outside the palace, Dannyl sighed. He waited until the Guild House slave opened the door, then rose and climbed out. Smoothing his robes, he straightened his back and strode toward the entrance.
Nobody stopped him. He had wondered why they’d let him in the previous day, when all they intended to tell him was to go home. Once again he stepped out of the broad passage into the hall, and was told by a slave to wait to one side.
Several people were standing around the hall. The king was present this time. At least Dannyl would be able to give his request directly to Amakira. Not that it would gain him a favourable response. The king finished talking to a pair of men and invited another three to approach.
Time passed. More people arrived. The king saw some of them not long after they arrived — sooner than Dannyl and some of the others waiting for an audience. They must have been more important, or at least the matter to be discussed was. Or he’s deliberately ignoring me to put me in my place.
Dannyl guessed that a few hours had passed by the time the king looked his way, then beckoned.
“Guild Ambassador Dannyl,” he said.
Dannyl approached and knelt. “Your majesty.”
“Rise and come closer.”
He obeyed. The air vibrated faintly, and Dannyl realised that the king, or someone else, had placed a shield about them to prevent sound escaping.
“You’re here, no doubt, to ask me to give Lorkin back,” the old man said.
“I am,” Dannyl replied.
“The answer is no.”
“May I at least see him, your majesty?”
“Of course.” The king’s stare was cold. “If you promise to order him to tell me everything he knows about the Traitors.”
“I cannot give that order,” Dannyl replied.
Amakira’s stare did not waver. “So you said. I’m sure you could convince him that the order came from those with the authority to give it.”
Dannyl opened his mouth to refuse, then paused. I could agree to try, in order to see Lorkin and confirm he is alive and well. But what if the king decided that Dannyl had broken his promise? Was that crime enough to be imprisoned for? Osen made it clear that I should avoid that. And if they take me prisoner, they’ll take Osen’s ring from me.
“I cannot do that either, your majesty,” Dannyl replied.
The king leaned back in his chair. “Then come back when you can.” He made a dismissive gesture. Taking the hint, Dannyl bowed and backed away for an appropriate distance, then turned and left.
Well, at least I got to see the king this time, he thought as he waited for the carriage. A rejection from the ruler is a slightly better-quality failure than a rejection from one of his lackeys. He wondered which he’d receive tomorrow, or if they would start refusing him admission to the palace.
When the carriage arrived at the Guild House he opened the door for himself, before any slave could do it. The air outside the house was hot and dry, and it was a relief to escape it into the cooler interior. He headed for his rooms, but before he got there Merria appeared in the corridor ahead.
“How did it go?” she asked.
Dannyl shrugged. “No better, though this time I was given a royal refusal.”
She shook her head. “Poor Lorkin. I hope he’s all right.”
“Any news from your friends?”
“No. They said they’re doing what they can to manipulate the Ashaki into objecting to the taking of a Kyralian magician prisoner, but it requires careful timing and can’t be hurried.”
He nodded. “Well… I appreciate their efforts. We all do.”
They had reached the entrance to his rooms. She looked up at him, her expression concerned, then patted him on the arm. “You’re doing everything you can,” she told him. “Everything they’ll let you do, anyway.”
He frowned. “So you think there’s nothing else I could do? Nothing that the Guild is preventing me from doing that I should do? Nothing we haven’t thought of yet?”
She looked away. “No… nothing that doesn’t include a risk of making the situation worse if it fails to work, anyway. Are you hungry? I was going to ask Vai to make me something to eat.”
What is this risky idea? he wondered. Should I ask about it? “Yes,” he said. “But not straightaway. I want to contact the Administrator first.”
“I’ll arrange something.” She headed back down the corridor and disappeared.
The interrogator didn’t turn up until some hours after the morning meal. Food had arrived — a slurry of ground grain. A faint symbol drawn with water on the porous wooden tray reassured him it was safe.
Lorkin’s stomach stirred unpleasantly as the Ashaki interrogator and his assistant led him in a new direction. The man chose another corridor and stopped at a different doorway, but the room inside was little different from the previous one. Plain, white walls surrounded three worn old stools.
The interrogator sat down and gestured for Lorkin to take one of the other stools, then looked at his assistant and nodded. The man slipped out of the room. Lorkin braced himself for more questions.
None came. The interrogator looked around, then shrugged and began staring at Lorkin with a distant expression. When the assistant returned, he shoved a female slave into the room before him. She threw herself onto the floor before the Ashaki. Lorkin tried to keep his expression neutral, to hide the wave of hatred for slavery he felt at her grovelling and the Ashaki’s expectation of it.
“Stand,” the interrogator ordered.
She got to her feet, facing the Ashaki with hunched shoulders and keeping her eyes downcast.
“Look at him.” The interrogator pointed at Lorkin.
The woman turned to face him, her gaze fixed on the floor. She was beautiful, he realised — or would have been if she hadn’t been terrified. Long, glossy hair framed a sculpted jaw and cheek bones that, for a moment, stirred memories of Tyvara that made his heart skip and fill with longing. But this woman’s limbs, while as graceful, were trembling, and her dark eyes were wide. At her obvious fear he felt his stomach sink. She expected something bad to happen.
“ Look at him. Don’t look away.”
Her gaze flitted up to meet his. Lorkin forced himself not to look away. If he did, he knew the Ashaki would make him regret it somehow. He could not help searching for some hint of resolve in her face, or an effort at communication that might indicate that she was a Traitor. All he saw was fear and resignation.
She expects pain, or worse. The only slaves I’ve seen down here were carrying things. Why else would she — a beautiful young woman — be down here with no obvious menial purpose?
A slave this beautiful would never be given purely menial tasks.
He felt sick. He could not help thinking of Tyvara again, and what she must have been forced to do as part of her spying. She, too, was too beautiful not to have attracted that kind of attention from her masters.
After all, the first time she met me she expected me to take her to bed.
The interrogator stood up. He took hold of the woman’s arm and pulled her closer to him. One of his hands went to the jewelled sheath that all Ashaki wore at their hip and he slowly drew his knife. Lorkin held his breath as the knife rose toward the slave’s throat. The woman shut her eyes tightly, but did not struggle.
Words flooded into Lorkin’s throat, but stuck there. He knew exactly what the interrogator intended to do, and why. If I speak to save her, many, many more will die. If she is a Traitor, she won’t want me to betray her people. He swallowed hard.
The knife did not slice across her throat. Instead the interrogator slid it under one shoulder of her shift and cut through the cloth. He took hold of the other shoulder and pulled, and the slave garment slid away, leaving her naked but for a loin cloth. Her expression didn’t change.
The Ashaki sheathed his knife, looked over her shoulder at Lorkin, and smiled.
“Any time you want to talk, go right ahead,” he said, flexing his fingers and curling them into a fist. The assistant chuckled.
And then the Ashaki set to work.