The Rogue (13 page)

Perhaps putting us up here was intended as compensation for that. But I suspect the main reason was to avoid having to do some major carpentry to the Front. There’s simply no room to add two more magicians below us.

Her attention snapped back to the meeting as Administrator Osen’s voice rose to address them all.

“Those in favour of blocking Lorandra’s powers, raise your hands.”

Sonea lifted hers. She counted the raised hands around her and was relieved to see that most of the Higher Magicians supported the action.

“The vote is cast; Lorandra’s powers will be blocked.” Osen looked up at Kallen. “Black Magician Kallen will establish the block.”

A few magicians glanced at Sonea and she resisted a grim smile. There was no reason a black magician had to put the block in place, but it had become one of the duties that she and Kallen were expected to perform.
I think everyone assumes it’s easier for us, since we can get around a mind’s natural tendency to push out an unwelcome visitor. Perhaps it is; I never had to do it before I learned black magic, so I have no way to compare.

Forcing a block onto an unwilling person was never a pleasant task, but she would have made herself do it if it had given her the opportunity to read Lorandra’s mind. When Administrator Osen had asked if she would do it, however, she’d had to refuse. If she was to bribe Lorandra with the promise of unblocking her power, the intention of dishonesty might be faintly detectable, and warn the woman to not trust Sonea. She hadn’t been so specific when explaining the reason for her refusal to Osen. She’d simply said she didn’t want to give Lorandra even more reason to refuse to cooperate with her in the search for Skellin.

Sonea did not want to have to deceive Lorandra, but the search for the rogue magician was going nowhere. They’d lost Regin’s help. Cery was expending as much effort keeping out of the reach of Skellin’s people and allies as in trying to find where Skellin was. To send Anyi off to spy for Cery, or to drag Dorrien’s family to Imardin so he could risk his life helping her, seemed far worse than lying to a woman who had defied the Guild’s laws, murdered Thieves and imported roet in the hope of setting her son up as king of the underworld.

I admit that, for all that I was impatient for the Guild to stop dithering and make the obvious decision, I was in no hurry to start the deception. Until Lorandra’s powers were blocked there was nothing to bribe her with. But now …
she sighed …
now there will be no putting it off for much longer.

Osen announced the meeting was over, and the hall began to echo with the sounds of boots on wooden steps, voices and the rustle of robes. Rothen waited for Sonea to descend to the level of the Heads of Studies, then followed close behind her.

“It turns out Dorrien is as good as he claims to be at attracting gossips,” he murmured.

Reaching the floor, she moved a little apart from the rest of the magicians.

“What did he say?”

“That Lord Regin and his wife are at odds.”

“That’s illuminating,” Sonea said dryly. “Did he find out what they were at odds over?”

Rothen opened his mouth, then, as he saw Lady Vinara coming toward them, closed it again and shook his head.

“Lady Vinara,” Sonea said as the woman reached them, Rothen echoing the greeting.

“Black Magician Sonea, Lord Rothen,” the elderly Healer said, nodding at each of them in turn. “You must be looking forward to having Lord Dorrien and his family living in Imardin sooner than first planned.”

Sonea looked at Rothen, who returned her questioning look with one of his own.

“So he’s made definite arrangements now?” Rothen asked, his tone full of resigned amusement.

Vinara smiled sympathetically. “Yes. He set a date so I can schedule him in to work at the Healers’ Quarters.” She turned to Sonea. “He wants to work at the hospices, but I felt it would be wise to have him for a short time where I can evaluate his grasp of recent Healing advances before I set him loose on the city.”

Sonea nodded. “I agree. Thank you,” she said, with heartfelt gratitude. She had never needed to order Dorrien around, and suspected he would be more challenging to direct than any other Healer. As a more senior Healer, who had once been his teacher, rather than a younger woman he had first met as a novice, Vinara would have no trouble correcting any bad habits Dorrien might have picked up.

Vinara nodded and moved away. Turning to Rothen, Sonea gave him a speculative look. He spread his hands and opened his eyes wide.

“Don’t look at me like that! I didn’t know!” He shook his head in exasperation. “He realised we’d both work together to make him promise not to come back to the Guild if he told us before he left.”

Sonea shrugged. “Do you mind if he joins me? Just because he’s moving back to Imardin earlier than planned doesn’t mean he has to be involved in the search.”

Rothen’s eyebrows rose. “I doubt you’d be able to stop him.”

She smiled wryly. “No, not once he starts working at the hospices. I’m sorry Rothen. I’ll do what I can to ensure he stays safe.”

“Why are you apologising to me?”

“For getting your son involved in a dangerous search for a rogue magician.”

“You haven’t done anything to encourage him,” he pointed out. “Instead, I should apologise for raising my son to be such a stubborn, persistent man.”

Sonea laughed bitterly. “I don’t think either of us can be blamed for how our sons turned out, Rothen. Some things are out of a parent’s hands.”

The record books that Dannyl had bought in the market had cost him a small fortune. The seller wouldn’t tell him at first where they’d come from, but when Dannyl had hinted he’d be keen to buy more the man had admitted they came from an estate at the edge of the wasteland which, like many, was failing due to the advance of the dust and sands.

The seller might have meant it as a reproach, but Dannyl had felt a guilty excitement in response. If other estates were selling their property to survive, there might be more records to buy. The drying effect of the wastes had kept the books and scrolls in good condition, too.

Not surprisingly, the records Dannyl had purchased often referred to the wasteland.

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Agreed to twenty gold for five reber, including a young male._

The record Dannyl was reading was written in an economical style, but from time to time the Ashaki author slipped from strict record-keeping into evocative description. Dannyl was intrigued by the reference to plants growing within the wasteland so soon after its creation. It made him wonder afresh why the land had not recovered. Had these plants struggled for a time, then failed?

Reading on, Dannyl spent hours skimming the record before he found anything interesting again. When he did, he checked dates and was surprised. Nearly twenty years had passed before the author mentioned the wasteland again.

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It is a mystery why this is so._

Mentions of the wasteland grew in frequency after that. Picking up the last of the record books in the set, he soon encountered what he had begun to anticipate.

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It has taken more than thirty years for it to touch my estate, though the dusts have preceded it since the day after the great blast._

Ashaki Tachika’s land is gone. Will mine and Valicha’s die in the next thirty years? Will my son inherit a doomed estate and future? Despite all the Ashaki say to deny it, their rejection of my son’s proposals of marriage to their daughters reveals their lie. Maybe it will be better if there is no grandson to inherit our troubles.

Not long after the entry, the handwriting changed. The son reported his father’s death and continued in the old man’s habit of brief entries mainly recording trade agreements. Dannyl’s heart was heavy with sympathy for the family, even after reminding himself that they were black magicians and slave owners. In the world that they knew and understood, they were sliding toward poverty and extinction.

Dannyl looked at his notes, leafing back to where he’d started. The record had begun a few years after occupation by Kyralia. The original author had been young, perhaps having inherited from an Ashaki who had died in the war. He wrote little about his Kyralian rulers. On the day the wasteland was created he described a bright light coming in his window, and later mentioned that it had taken three days for the slaves blinded by it to recover enough to work.

He did not speculate in the record on the cause of the light or destruction.
Perhaps he was wary of putting any accusations or discontent toward Kyralians down on paper.

One last book remained of the pile he’d bought. It was a small and tattered thing, and grains of sand had worked their way into every fold and crack, suggesting it had once been buried. When he opened it he saw that the writing was so faded it was almost impossible to read.

He was well prepared for that. Librarians at the Great Library in Elyne had developed methods for reviving old texts. Some of these ultimately destroyed the book, while others were gentler and could revive the ink for a short time. How effective they were depended on the type of paper and ink. In either case, if pages were treated one at a time a copy could be made before they disintegrated or faded.

Taking out jars of solutions and powders from a box on his desk, he set to work testing them on the corners of a few pages. To his relief, one of the less destructive methods enhanced the ink enough to make the writing just readable for a while. He began to apply it to the first page, and as the words became clear he felt his heart beat a little faster.

The book, written in very tiny handwriting, had belonged to the wife of an Ashaki. Though she began each page with a heading suggesting that the text was about some domestic or cosmetic matter, the writing that followed quickly changed to matters of politics. “Salve for Dry Hair and Scalp”, for example, turned into a scathing assessment of the emperor’s cousin.

“Emperor”?
Dannyl frowned.
If there is an emperor, then this was written before the Sachakan War.

He read on, carefully treating each page with the solution and impatiently watching the words appear. Soon he realised he was wrong. The woman only referred to the defeated emperor by his title because she did not have an alternative, and the Sachakans hadn’t yet adopted the term “king” for their ruler.

Which means this diary was written some time after the war but within twenty years of it.

The writer had included no dates, so he had no way to know how much time had passed between entries. She never used names, instead referring to people by physical appearance.

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Useful Cures for Womanly Times

Once a month a cycle of events brings many ills. Leading up to it there is often much anxiety, bad temper and bloating, and when the time comes it may be a relief, though it is always draining. The challenge is containment. The careless will experience leaks – often not noticing until it is too late. How else do I find out what the pale ones are planning? They trust the slaves, thinking them grateful for freedom. It is not hard to make the slaves talk. The crazy emperor knows. That is why he claimed the betrayer’s slave for himself. Better to keep an eye on it always. Take the hero’s property and you replace the hero in the slaves’ eyes. The crazy emperor wanted the pale ones to take our children and have their own people raise them. Make our little ones hate us. But the kind one argued against the plan and the others supported him. I bet they regret making the mad one their leader.

As Dannyl waited for another page to respond to the treatment, he considered the last passage he’d read. The woman had referred to the “crazy emperor” many times. He didn’t think the man was an actual emperor, just a leader. If the “pale ones” were Kyralians then this was the magician who had led them, Lord Narvelan. Dannyl was intrigued by the suggestion that Narvelan had adopted a slave as his own. The slave of the “betrayer”, who was also a hero. He squinted at the slowly darkening text.

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Proper Manners Toward Visitors

Respect is given first to the Ashaki, then to the magician, then to the free man. Men before women. Older before younger. Theft is a great offence, and today our pale visitors were robbed by one of their own. By their own crazy emperor. He took the weapon from our throats and ran. Many of the pale ones have given chase. It is a great opportunity. I am angry and sad. My people are too cowed, even to take the advantage they have. They say the crazy emperor may return with the knife, and punish us. They are cowards.

From the way the writing changed from neat letters to a scrawl, he guessed that a jump in time had occurred in the middle of the entry and the latter part was added hastily or in anger. The reference to a weapon was not new – the diary’s author had referred to it already as a reason the Sachakans feared to rise up against the Kyralians. But now Narvelan had stolen it. Why?

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How to Respond to News of a Rival’s Death

Our freedom is inevitable and comes at the hands of a fool! A great blast of magic has scoured the land to the north-west. Such power could only have come from the storestone. No other artefact or magician is that powerful. It is clear the crazy emperor tried to use it when his people confronted him, but lost control of it. We are rid of both of them! Many of the pale ones died, so there are still far fewer here to control us. There is fear that they have another weapon. But if they do not bring it here, my people will rise out of their cowardice and take back their own land. The land burned by the storestone will recover. We will be strong again.

Dannyl felt a chill run down his spine. In her excitement, the diary writer had referred to the weapon by its real name: the storestone. So if she was right, Narvelan had taken the stone. He had attempted to use it, lost control and created the wasteland.