The Ambassador's Mission (The Traitor Spy Trilogy #1)(7)

He managed a faint smile. “I won’t. Oh. Also, there’s something else. It’s just a niggle, but I reckon one of the new Thieves, Skellin, fancies having his own magician. He’s a rot supplier, so you better hope none of your magicians has a weakness for the stuff.”

“They’re not my magicians, Cery,” she reminded him, not for the first time.

Instead of his usual grin, he responded with a grimace. “Yes. Anyway. Unless you want to know how I get in and out of here, you better leave the room.”

Sonea rolled her eyes, then walked to the bedroom door. She turned back before closing it. “Good night, Cery. I’m so sorry about your family and I hope Anyi is alive and not in any danger.”

He nodded, then swallowed. “I do, too.”

Then she closed the door behind her and waited. There were a few faint thuds from the guest room, then silence. She counted to a hundred then opened the door again. The room was unoccupied. She could see no sign of his entrance and exit.

The darkness between the window screens was not so impenetrable now. It had gained a greyish tone, a hint of shape and form just discernible in the early morning light. She took a step toward it and stopped. Was that the square bulk of the High Lord’s Residence, or was she imagining it? Either way, the suggestion sent a shiver down her spine.

Stop it. He’s not there.

Balkan had lived there for the last twenty years. She had often wondered whether he felt haunted by the shadow of the former occupant, but had never asked, sure such a question would be tactless.

He’s up on the hill. Behind you.

She turned and looked beyond the walls, seeing in her imagination the shiny white new stone slabs among the grey of the ancient cemetery. An old longing filled her, but she hesitated. She had much to do today. But it was early – dawn was only just breaking. She had time. And it had been a while. Cery’s terrible news brought a need to … to what? Perhaps to acknowledge his loss by recalling her own. She needed to do more than act out the usual daily routine and pretend something awful hadn’t happened.

Returning to her bedroom, she washed and changed quickly, threw a cloak around her shoulders – black over black – then slipped out of the main door to her room, walked as quietly as she could down the hall of the Magicians’ Quarters to the entrance and out onto the path to the cemetery.

New paths had been laid since the first time she’d visited, with Lord Rothen, over twenty years before. Weedy vegetation had been removed, but the Guild had left a wall of protective trees around the outermost graves. She noted the smooth slabs of freshly carved stone. Some she had seen laid, some she hadn’t. When a magician died, any magic left in his or her body was released, and if there was enough of it their body was consumed. So the old graves had been a mystery. If there was no body to bury, why were there graves here?

The rediscovery of black magic had answered that question. The last remaining magical energy of those ancient magicians had been drawn away by a black magician, leaving a body to bury.

Now that black magic was no longer taboo, though strictly controlled, burials had become popular again. The task of drawing the last of a magician’s power fell to the Guild’s two black magicians, her and Black Magician Kallen.

Sonea felt that, if she had taken the last of a magician’s power at death, she ought to be present at the funeral. I wonder if Kallen feels the same sense of obligation when a magician chooses him. She moved to a plain, undecorated slab of stone and dried the dew from one corner with magical heat so she could sit down. Her eyes found the name carved into it. Akkarin. You would have found it amusing to see how many of the magicians who were so against reviving the use of black magic resort to it in the end, so their flesh remains after death to rot in the ground. Perhaps you’d have decided, as I have, that allowing your body to be consumed by your last magic is more appropriate for a magician and, she glanced at the increasingly elaborate decoration on the newer graves provided by the Guild, considerably less expensive.

She looked at the words on the grave she sat upon. A name, a title, a house name, a family name. Later the words “Father of Lorkin” had been added, in small, begrudging letters. But of her own name there was no mention. And will never be, while your family has anything to do with it, Akkarin. But at least they’ve accepted your son.

Pushing bitterness aside, she turned her mind to Cery and his family for a while, allowing herself to remember grief and feel the ache of sympathy. To allow memories to return, some welcome, some not. After a while the sound of footsteps roused her from her thoughts and she realised the sun had risen completely.

Turning to face the visitor, she smiled as she saw Rothen walking toward her. For a moment his wrinkled face was a mask of concern, then it relaxed into an expression of relief.

“Sonea,” he said, pausing to catch his breath. “A messenger came to see you. Nobody knew where you’d gone.”

“And I bet it caused a lot of unnecessary fuss and excitement.”

He frowned at her. “This is not a good time to be making the Guild question their trust of a common-born magician, Sonea, considering the change of rules about to be proposed.”

“Is there ever a good time for that?” She rose and sighed. “Besides, I didn’t destroy the Guild and turn all Kyralians into slaves, did I? I went for a walk. Nothing sinister at all.” She looked at him. “I haven’t left the city in twenty years, and have only left the Guild grounds to work in the hospices. Isn’t that enough?”