The man leapt to his feet and hurried away. As Lorkin followed Dannyl to the stools, he caught a flash of something metallic at Tariko’s waist and looked closer. An elaborately decorated knife sheath and handle hung from his belt. It was quite beautiful, set with jewels and inlaid with gold.

Then Lorkin felt a chill run down his spine.

It’s a black magician’s knife. Ashaki Tariko is a black magician. For a moment he felt a rush of fear that was strangely exhilarating, but it faded as quickly and left behind a disappointing cynicism. Yeah, and so’s your mother, he found himself thinking, and he suddenly knew that living in a land of black magicians wasn’t going to be as thrilling and novel as he’d thought it would be.

His thoughts were interrupted by a stream of men and women, dressed simply in cloth wrapped about their torso and bound with a length of rope about their waist. They bore either a platter laden with food, or pitchers and goblets. Exotic smells assaulted his nose and he felt his stomach rumble in response. Each slave approached Ashaki Tariko, burden held out before them and head bowed, then knelt before him. The first held the utensils with which the host and guests would eat: a plate and a knife with a forked tip. Then goblets were offered and filled with wine. Finally there were successive dishes, the master of the house selecting first, then Dannyl, then Lorkin. Tariko dismissed each slave with a quiet, “Go.”

The master of the house first, Lorkin recited silently. Magicians before non-magicians, Ashaki before landless free men, age before youth, men before women. Only if a woman was a magician and head of her family would she be served before men. And women often eat separately from men anyway. I wonder if Ashaki Tariko has a wife.

The food was richly spiced, some so hot he had to stop and cool his mouth with a mouthful of wine every few bites. He resisted as long as possible, both in the hope he would grow used to the heat sooner, and because he did not want to end up insensible from drink – especially not on his first night as a guest of a Sachakan black magician.

While Dannyl and their host discussed the journey across the wastes, the weather, the food and the wine, Lorkin watched the slaves. The last of them to offer their burdens had waited the longest, but their arms were steady. It was strange to have these silent people in the room, all but ignored as Tariko and Dannyl talked.

These people are Tariko’s possessions, he reminded himself. They are put to work and bred like livestock. He tried to imagine what that would be like, and shuddered. Only when the last of the food had been offered and the last slave dismissed was Lorkin able to pay attention to the conversation.

“How does it affect you, living this close to the wasteland?” Dannyl asked.

Tariko shrugged. “If the wind comes from that direction it sucks the moisture out of everything. It can ruin a crop if it blows too long. Afterwards there will be a fine sanddust coating everything, inside and outside.” He looked up, beyond the walls toward the wasteland. “The wastes grow a little larger each year. One day, maybe in a thousand years, the sands will meet those in the north, and all Sachaka will be desert.”

“Unless it can be reversed,” Dannyl said. “Has anyone here attempted to reclaim land from the wastes?”

“Many.” Of course we have, Tariko’s expression seemed to say. “Sometimes successfully, but never permanently. Those who have studied the wastes say that the fertile top layer of the land was stripped away, and without it water is not retained and plants cannot return.”

Dannyl’s gaze sharpened with interest. “But you have no idea how?”

“No.” Tariko sighed. “Every few years it rains in the northern desert, and within a few days the land turns green. The soil is rich with ash from the volcanoes. It is only the lack of rain that keeps it a desert. We have plenty of rain here but still nothing grows.”

“That sounds like a wonder to see,” Lorkin added in a murmur. “The northern desert in flower, that is.”

Tariko smiled at him. “It is. The Duna tribes come south to harvest the desert plants and sell the dried leaves, fruit and seeds in Arvice. If you are lucky, such an event will happen during your stay, and you will have the opportunity to enjoy some rare spices and delicacies.”

“I hope so,” Lorkin said. “Though I can’t imagine anything more exotic and delicious than the meal we just enjoyed.”

The Sachakan chuckled, pleased at the flattery. “I have always said that of all slaves, good cooks are worth the extra expense. And horse trainers.”

Lorkin just managed to stop himself wincing at such a casual reference to buying people and was glad that Tariko said no more about it. After a discussion about foods native to Sachaka, in which Tariko recommended they try some dishes and avoid others, the Ashaki straightened his back.

“You must be tired and now that I have fed you I won’t keep you from a bath and bed any longer.”

Dannyl looked disappointed as their host rose, but to Lorkin’s relief did not protest. A gong rang out and two young women hurried into the room to throw themselves on the floor.

“Take our guests to their rooms,” he ordered. Then he smiled at Dannyl and Lorkin. “Rest well Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin. I will see you again in the morning.”

Lifting the cover, Cery leaned close to the spy hole and squinted at the room beyond. It was narrow, but very long, so the overall space was generous. He hadn’t liked the shape, but it could be divided into a string of smaller rooms, and escape routes spaced along the length.

Several men were working within the room, covering the brick walls with panelling, building the framework for the dividing walls, and tiling the floor. Two were working on the fireplace, clearing a blockage. As soon as they were finished and the mess cleared, work would start on decorating, and Cery’s new hideout – and trap for the Thief Hunter – would become a tasteful, luxurious space.

“Are you sure you want to use the same lockmaker?” Gol asked.

Cery turned to see his bodyguard’s eye illuminated by a small circle of light from beyond another spy hole.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“You said you didn’t think Dern betrayed you, and if nobody betrays you then the Thief Hunter will never fall into our trap.”

Turning back to the spy hole, Cery watched the men working. “I don’t want people thinking I’m blaming him.”

“I’m still a bit suspicious about the lock. Why would Dern build into it a way to tell if magic had been used, if it was so unlikely magic would be used on it?”

“Maybe he thought it was likely. After all, I’m a Thief. Thieves have been getting murdered for some years now.”

“Then he must have reason to suspect they were killed with the help of magic.”

“Perhaps he has. Perhaps he’s heard the rumours about the Thief Hunter. But I’ve always found Dern to be habitually thorough to the point of ridiculousness and I think that’s why he made it like that, not that he knew anything about the Thief Hunter and his methods.”

Gol sighed. “Well… yes, he does seem that way at times. And while he was thankful to get more work from you, he seemed, well, nervous. Twitchy. Kept saying if the Thief Hunter and the Rogue turned out to be real and the same then what other legends might be true? Like the one about the giant ravis that eat people alive if they go into the sewers, or come up and drag people off the Thieves’ Road.”

“He would have to wonder.” Cery shook his head. “I always thought the Rogue was a myth, too. People have been saying there’s a magician hiding in the city for twenty years, even though Senfel rejoined the Guild after they pardoned him, and died of old age… what? Is it nine or ten years ago?”

“Senfel put the idea into people’s heads – as did Sonea. Now every strange occurrence that could be magical is evidence that more rogues are about.”