The Magician's Apprentice Read online

  She gripped the rail as her father tugged on the reins to slow the mare and turn her through the gates at one side of the lord’s Residence. In the dim light of the building’s shadows she made out stable workers coming forward to take the reins as the cart stopped. Her father jumped down from the seat. Keron stepped forward to take her father’s bag. She leapt down to the ground and hurried after as they disappeared into the house.

  Tessia caught glimpses of the kitchen, storeroom, washroom and other practical spaces through the doorways of the corridor they strode down. Their rapid footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell as they climbed up to the floor above. A few turns later and she found herself in a part of the building she had never seen before. Tastefully decorated walls and fine furniture suggested a living area, but these were not the rooms she had seen a few years before, when her father had been summoned to tend a rather vapid young woman suffering from a fainting fit. There were a few bedrooms, and a seating room, and she guessed these were rooms for guests.

  She was surprised, then, when Keron opened a door and ushered them into a small room furnished with only a plain bed and a narrow table. No windows let in light, so a tiny lamp burned in the room. It felt mean and dingy. She looked at the bed and suddenly all thought of the décor left her mind.

  A man lay there, his face bruised and swollen so badly one eye was a bloodied, compressed slit. The white of the other eye was dark. She suspected it would appear red in better light. His lips did not line up properly, possibly indicating a broken jaw. His face seemed broad and strangely shaped, though that might have been an effect of the injuries.

  He also cradled his right hand to his chest, and she saw instantly that the forearm bent in a way it shouldn’t. His chest, too, was dark with bruises. All he wore was a pair of short, tattered trousers that had been roughly mended in many places. His skin was deeply tanned and his build was slight. His feet were bare, and black with dirt. One ankle was badly swollen. The calf of the other leg looked slightly crooked, as if it had healed badly after a break.

  The room was silent but for the man’s rapid, laboured breathing. Tessia recognised the sound and felt her stomach sink. Her father had once treated a man whose ribs had been broken, puncturing his lungs. That man had died.

  Her father hadn’t moved since entering the room. He stood still, back slightly bent, gazing at the beaten, broken figure on the bed.

  “Father,” she ventured.

  With a jerk, he straightened and turned to look at her. As he met her eyes she felt understanding pass between them. She found herself shaking her head slightly, and realised he was doing the same. Then she smiled. Surely at moments like these, when they did not even need to speak to understand each other, he could see that she was meant to follow in his footsteps?

  He frowned and looked down, then turned back to the bed. She felt a sudden, painful loss. What he should have done was smile, or nod, or give her some sign of reassurance that they would continue working together.

  I must regain his confidence, she thought. She took her father’s bag from Keron, placed it on the narrow table and opened it. Taking out the burner, she lit it and adjusted the flame. Footsteps sounded outside the room.

  “We need more light,” her father muttered.

  Abruptly the room was filled with a dazzling white light. Tessia ducked as a ball of brightness moved past her head. She stared at it and immediately regretted doing so. It was too bright. When she looked away a circular shadow obscured her sight.

  “Is that enough?” a strangely accented voice asked.

  “I thank you, master,” she heard her father say respectfully.

  Master? Tessia felt her stomach spasm. Only one person currently staying in the Residence would be addressed so by her father. Yet with the realisation came a feeling of rebellion. I will not show this Sachakan any fear, she decided. Though I guess there’s no risk of trembling at the sight of anyone when I can’t actually see properly. She rubbed at her eyes. The dark patch was receding as her eyes recovered. Squinting at the doorway, she realised there were two figures standing there.

  “How do you rate his chances, Healer Veran?” a more familiar voice asked.

  Her father hesitated before answering. “Low, my lord,” he admitted. “His lungs are pierced. Such an injury is usually fatal.”

  “Do what you can,” Lord Dakon instructed.

  Tessia could just make out the two magicians’ faces now. Lord Dakon’s expression was grim. His companion was smiling. She could see enough to make out his broad Sachakan features, the elaborately decorated jacket and pants he wore, and the jewelled knife in its sheath on his belt that Sachakans wore to indicate they were magicians. Lord Dakon said something quietly, and the pair moved out of sight. She heard their footsteps receding down the corridor beyond.

  Abruptly, the light blinked out, leaving them in darkness. Tessia heard her father curse under his breath. Then the room brightened again, though not so fiercely. She looked up to see Keron step inside carrying two full-sized lamps.

  “Ah, thank you,” Tessia’s father said. “Place them over here, and here.”

  “Is there anything else you require?” the servant asked. “Water? Cloth?”

  “At the moment what I need more than anything else is information. How did this happen?”

  “I’m... I’m not sure. I did not witness it.”

  “Did anyone? It is easy to miss an injury when there are so many. A description of where each blow fell—”

  “Nobody saw,” the man said quickly. “None but Lord Dakon, this slave and his master.”

  Slave? Tessia looked down at the injured man. Of course. The tanned skin and broad features were typically Sachakan. Suddenly the Sachakan magician’s interest made sense.

  Her father sighed. “Then fetch us some water, and I will write a list of supplies for you to collect from my wife.”

  The house master hurried away. Tessia’s father looked at her, his expression grim. “It will be a long night for you and me.” He smiled faintly. “I have to wonder, at times like these, if you are tempted by your mother’s vision of your future.”

  “At times like these it never crosses my mind,” she told him. Then she added quietly, “This time we may succeed.”

  His eyes widened, then his shoulders straightened a little. “Let’s get started, then.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Playing host to a Sachakan magician was never easy and rarely pleasant. Of all the tasks required of Lord Dakon’s servants, feeding their guest had caused the most distress. If Ashaki Takado was served a dish he recognised as one he’d eaten before he would reject it, even if he had enjoyed it. He disliked most dishes and he had a large appetite, so at each meal many, many more courses had to be prepared than were normally required to feed two people.

  The reward for enduring the fussiness of this guest was a great surfeit of food, which was shared among the household afterwards. If Takado stays for many more weeks I will not be surprised to find my servants have begun to get a little rotund, Dakon mused. Still, I am sure they would much rather the Sachakan moved on.

  As would I, he added to himself as his guest leaned back, patted his broad girth and belched. Preferably back to his homeland, which I presume is where he is heading since he has travelled through most of Kyralia and this is the closest Residence to the pass.

  “An excellent meal,” Takado announced. “Did I detect a little bellspice in that last dish?”

  Dakon nodded. “An advantage to living close to the border is that Sachakan traders occasionally pass this way.”

  “I’m surprised they do. Mandryn isn’t on the direct road to Imardin.”

  “No, but occasionally spring floods block the main road and the best alternative route brings traffic right through the village.” He wiped his mouth on a cloth. “Shall we retire to the seating room?”

  As Takado nodded, Dakon heard a faint sigh of relief from Cannia, who was on duty in the dining room tonight. At leastthe s
ervants’ trials are over for the evening, Dakon thought wearily as he stood up. Mine don’t end until the man sleeps.

  Takado rose and stepped away from the table. He was a full head taller than Dakon, and his broad shoulders and wide face added to the impression of bulk. Beneath a layer of soft fat was the frame of a typical Sachakan – strong and big. Next to Takado, Dakon knew he must appear pathetically thin and small. And pale. While not as dark as the Lonmars of the north, Sachakan skin was a healthy brown that Kyralian women had been trying to achieve with paints for centuries.

  Which they still did, despite otherwise loathing and fearing the Sachakans. Dakon led the way out of the room. They should be proud of their complexion, but centuries of believing our pallor is evidence that we are a weak, barbaric race can’t be turned around easily.

  He entered the seating room, Takado following and dropping into the chair he’d claimed as his own for the duration of his stay. The room was illuminated by two lamps. Though he could easily have lit the room with a magical light, Dakon preferred the warm glow of lamplight. It reminded him of his mother, who’d had no magical talent and preferred to do things “the old-fashioned way”. She’d also decorated and furnished the seating room. After another Sachakan visitor, impressed with the library, had decided that Dakon’s father would gift him with several valuable books, she had decreed that such visitors be entertained in a room that appeared full of priceless treasures, but actually contained copies, fakes or inexpensive knick-knacks.

  Takado stretched his legs and watched Dakon pour wine from a jug the servants had left for them. “So, Lord Dakon, do you think your healer can save my slave?”

  Dakon detected no concern in the man’s voice. He hadn’t expected care for the slave’s well-being – just the sort of interest a man has in a belonging that has broken and is being repaired. “Healer Veran will do the best he can.”

  “And if he fails, how will you punish him?”

  Dakon handed Takado a goblet. “I won’t.”

  Takado’s eyebrows rose. “How do you know he will do his best, then?”

  “Because I trust him. He is a man of honour.”

  “He is a Kyralian. My slave is valuable to me, and I am Sachakan. How do I know he won’t hasten the man’s death to spite me?”

  Dakon sat down and took a sip of the wine. It wasn’t a good vintage. His ley didn’t enjoy a climate favourable for winemaking. But it was strong, and would speed the Sachakan towards retiring for the night. Dakon doubted it would loosen the man’s tongue, though. It hadn’t on any of the previous evenings.

  “Because he is a man of honour,” Dakon repeated.

  The Sachakan snorted. “Honour! Among servants? If I were you, I’d take the daughter. She’s not so ugly, for a Kyralian. She’ll have picked up a few healing tricks, so she’d be a useful slave, too.”

  Dakon smiled. “Surely you have noticed during your journeying that slavery is outlawed in Kyralia.”

  Takado’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, I couldn’t help but notice. Nobody could fail to see how badly your servants attend to their masters. Surly. Stupid. Clumsy. It wasn’t always that way, you know. Your people once embraced slavery as if it was their own idea. They could again, too. You might regain the prosperity your great-grandfathers enjoyed.” He downed the wine in a few gulps and then sighed appreciatively.

  “We’ve enjoyed greater prosperity since outlawing slavery than we ever had before,” Dakon told his guest as he rose to refill the Sachakan’s goblet and top up his own. “Keeping slaves isn’t profitable. Treat them badly and they die before they become useful, or else rebel or run away. Treat them well and they cost as much to feed and control as free servants, yet have no motivation to work well.”

  “No motivation but fear of punishment or death.”

  “An injured or dead slave is of no use to anyone. I can’t see how beating a slave to death for stepping on your foot is going to encourage him to be careful in the future. His death won’t even be an example to others, since there are no other slaves here to learn from it.”

  Takado swirled the wine in his goblet, his expression unreadable. “I probably went a bit too far. Trouble is, after travelling with him for months I’ve grown utterly sick of his company. You would, too, if you were restricted to one servant when you visited a country. I’m sure whichever of your kings came up with that law only wanted to punish Sachakans.”

  “Happy servants make better companions,” Dakon said. “I enjoy conversing and dealing with my people, and they don’t seem to mind talking to and working for me. If they didn’t like me, they wouldn’t alert me to potential problems in the ley, or suggest ways to increase crop yield.”

  “If my slaves didn’t alert me to problems in my domain or get the best out of my crops, I’d have them killed.”

  “And then their skills would be lost. My people live longer and so gain proficiency in their work. They take pride in it, and are more likely to be innovative and inventive – like the healer tending your slave.”

  “But not like his daughter,” Takado said. “Her skill will be wasted, won’t it? She is a woman and in Kyralia women do not become healers. In my country her skills would be utilised.” He leaned towards Dakon. “If you let me buy her off you, I’ll make sure she gets to use them. I suspect she’d welcome the chance.” He took a swig of the wine, watching Dakon over the rim of the goblet.

  For a greedy, cruel man with too much power and too little self-restraint, Takado can be disturbingly perceptive, Dakon noted. “Even if I would not be breaking a law, and she agreed to such a thing, I don’t think it’s her healing skills you’re interested in.”

  Takado laughed and relaxed in his chair. “You’ve seen through me once again, Lord Dakon. I expect you haven’t tasted that dish – or have you?”

  “Of course not. She is half my age.”

  “Which only makes her more appealing.”

  Takado was goading him again, Dakon knew. “And more likely that such a liaison would make me look a fool.”

  “There’s no shame in seeking a little entertainment while looking for a suitable wife,” Takado said. “I’m surprised you haven’t found yourself one yet – a wife, that is. I suppose there aren’t any females in Aylen ley worthy of your status. You should visit Imardin more often. Looks like everything worth being a part of happens there.”

  “It has been too long since I visited,” Dakon agreed. He sipped the wine. “Did you enjoy your stay there?”

  Takado shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d use the word ‘enjoy’. It was as barbaric a place as I expected.”

  “If you didn’t expect to enjoy it, why did you go?”

  The Sachakan’s eyes gleamed and he held out his empty goblet again. “To satisfy my curiosity.”

  Dakon rose to refill it. Every time they came close to discussing why Takado had toured Kyralia the Sachakan became flippant or changed the subject. It had made some magicians nervous, especially since rumours had reached them that some of the younger Sachakan magicians had met in Arvice, the capital of Sachaka, to discuss whether regaining the empire’s former colonies was possible. The Kyralian king had sent secret requests to all landowners that any lord or lady Takado stayed with seek the reason for his visit.

  “So has your curiosity been satisfied?” Dakon asked as he returned to his seat.

  Takado shrugged. “There’s more I’d like to see, but without a slave...? No.”

  “Your slave might yet live.”

  “Much as I have appreciated your hospitality, I’m not going to stay here only to see whether a slave I’m tired of recovers. I’ve probably been too great a drain on your resources already.” He paused to drink. “No, if he lives, keep him. He’ll probably be crippled and useless.”

  Dakon blinked in surprise. “So if he lives and I allow him to stay, you grant him his freedom?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Takado waved a hand dismissively. “Can’t have you breaking your own laws because of me.”

&n
bsp; “I thank you for your consideration. So where will you go next? Home?”

  The Sachakan nodded, then grinned. “Can’t let the slaves back in my domain get any foolish ideas about who is in control, can I?”

  “Absence, as they say, tempers the bonds of affection.”

  Takado laughed. “You have some strange sayings here in Kyralia. Like ‘Sleep is the cheapest tonic’.” He stood and, as Dakon followed suit, handed over his empty wine goblet. “You haven’t finished yours,” he noted.

  “As you are no doubt aware, small bodies make for quick drunks.” Dakon set his half-empty goblet next to the empty one on the tray. “And while there is an injured man in my house I feel a responsibility to remain sober, even when that man is only a lowly Sachakan slave.”

  Takado’s stare was somewhere between blank and amused. “You Kyralians are truly a strange people.” He turned away. “No need to escort me to my room. I remember the way.” He swayed slightly. “At least, I think I remember. Good night, Lord Dakon, as you strange Kyralians say.”

  “Good night, Ashaki Takado,” Dakon replied.

  He watched the Sachakan stroll down the corridor, and listened to the man’s footsteps receding. Then he followed as silently as he could manage. Not to make sure that his guest went where he intended, but because he wanted to check on Veran’s progress. The slave’s room was, naturally, not far from his master’s and Dakon did not want the Sachakan noticing where he was going, and deciding to accompany him.

  A few corridors and a stairway later Dakon watched as Takado walked past the door to his slave’s room without glancing at it, and disappeared into his own chamber. Muffled sounds came from within the slave’s room. The light spilling under the door flickered. Dakon paused, reconsidering whether he should interrupt.

  The slave will either live or he won’t, he told himself; it won’t make any difference whether you visit or not. But he could not find the cold practicality with which Takado regarded all but the most powerful of humans. Memories of the slave pinned to a wall, recoiling from relentless invisible blows dealt by the Sachakan magician, made Dakon shudder. He could still hear the crunch of breaking bones, the slap of impacts upon vulnerable flesh.