“Seems they might have been right about that.” Cery scowled. “But that’s more reason why we need to be sure before we tell Sonea.”

Gol grunted in agreement. “Do you think we should tell Skellin what we’re doing?”

“Skellin?” For a moment Cery wondered why, then he remembered the agreement he’d made with the other Thief. “We don’t know for sure if the person we’re baiting is the Thief Hunter. If we find evidence that he is, we’ll tell Skellin. Otherwise…” he shrugged. “He never asked me to tell him if I found a rogue.”

For a while they both looked through the spy holes in silence, then Cery let the cover of his hole swing back. The workmen knew of the escape routes they were building, but not of the ones that already existed, or of the spy holes Cery and Gol were watching them through.

“Let’s go.”

The hole of light before Gol’s eye vanished. Cery began walking, trailing a hand along the wall.

I wonder which one of the workmen I’ve hired will leak the location of my new hideout. Though Cery always treated workers well, paying them fairly and without delay, he could never be completely sure of their loyalty or ability to keep secrets. He found out everything he could about them: if they had family, if they cared about that family, if they had debts, who they had worked for in the past, who had worked for them, and if there was anyone, the Guard especially, they’d rather not encounter.

Not this time. Gol has set the information gathering in motion, but there isn’t enough time to be thorough, and that’s fine. For the trap to work Cery needed someone to leak information about it. But if I don’t take some precautions the Hunter might think it out of character, and become suspicious.

The passage turned, then turned again.

“You can open the lamp now,” Cery murmured.

There was a pause, then a faint squeak, and the tunnel was suddenly bathed in light.

“You know, any of those workers could be the Hunter.”

Cery glanced over his shoulder at his friend.

“Surely not.”

Gol shrugged. “Even the Hunter needs to eat and keep a roof over his head. He’s got to have a job of some sort.”

“Unless he’s rich,” Cery pointed out, turning back again.

“Unless he’s rich,” Gol agreed.

Once, it would have been a safe bet to assume the Hunter was rich. Only rich people learned magic. But these days, people of all classes could join the Guild. And if the Hunter couldn’t afford to bribe people, he could always blackmail and threaten them – possibly more effectively using magic to scare people.

I wish I could ask Sonea if any magicians or novices have gone missing. But I don’t want to risk meeting her again until I have proof there is a rogue in the city.

And in the meantime, he had best make sure he got that proof without getting himself killed.

The former Guild Ambassador to Sachaka had told Dannyl that no walls surrounded Arvice. No defensive walls, that was. There were plenty of boundary walls in Sachaka. Taller than a man, or so low they might be stepped over, and always rendered and painted white, they marked the boundaries of property. The only indication that he and Lorkin had reached the city was that high walls now lined the roadside instead of low ones, except in places where they had collapsed and not been repaired.

There have been a lot of ruins, he noted. Out in the wasteland, and then the occasional clusters of broken walls within estates that looked like they might once have been mansions. And now this… The carriage passed another collapsed wall and through the gap he could see the scorched and crumbling remains of a building. It’s as if the Sachakan War only happened a few years ago, and they haven’t had time yet to rebuild.

But if the creation of the wasteland had cut Sachaka’s food production by half, as Ashaki Tariko claimed, then perhaps the population had shrunk accordingly. Houses wouldn’t be rebuilt if there wasn’t anyone to live in them.

The war happened seven hundred years ago. Surely the houses abandoned then would be long gone. These ruins must be more recent. Perhaps the population is still slowly diminishing. Or maybe the owners are too poor to afford repairs or rebuilding.

The carriage neared a young woman, walking barefoot along the street and wearing the plain, belted wrap of a slave. She glanced up as the vehicle approached, then her eyes widened. Veering away, she hunched over and fixed her eyes on the ground as it passed.

Dannyl frowned, then leaned closer to the window so he could see ahead. More slaves populated the road in front of them. They, too, reacted with fear as the carriage approached. Some turned and ran in the other direction. Those near side streets took advantage of them. Others froze and shrank against the nearest wall.

Is this normal slave behaviour? Do they shrink away from all carriages, or is it because this is a Guild carriage? If the latter, why do they fear us? Have any of my or Lorkin’s predecessors given them reason to? Or do they fear Kyralians only because of past events?

The carriage turned into another street, then crossed a wider thoroughfare. Dannyl noticed that the slaves here were not as fearful, though they did give the carriage a wide berth. After it rounded a few more corners it abruptly turned between two gates into a courtyard, and stopped. A glint of gold caught his eye, and he saw that a plaque on the side of the house stated: Guild House of Arvice.

Dannyl turned to regard Lorkin. The young man was sitting straight, his eyes bright with excitement. He looked at Dannyl, then waved at the carriage door.

“Ambassadors first,” he said, grinning.

Moving across the cabin, Dannyl opened the door and climbed down. A man was lying on the ground nearby. For a moment Dannyl felt a flash of concern, worried that the stranger had collapsed. Then he remembered.

“I am Guild Ambassador Dannyl,” he said. “This is Lord Lorkin, my assistant. You may rise.”

The man climbed to his feet, keeping his gaze on the ground. “Welcome, Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin.”

“Thank you,” Dannyl replied automatically, remembering too late that such social habits were seen as amusing and foolish to the Sachakans. “Take us inside.”

The man gestured to a nearby door, then turned and walked through it. He glanced back to ensure they were following as he led the way down a corridor. Just as in Ashaki Tariko’s house, it led to a large room – the Master’s Room. But this room was abuzz with voices. Dannyl was surprised to find at least twenty men standing there, all in the highly decorated short jackets that Sachakan men wore as traditional formal attire. All turned to regard him as he entered, and the voices immediately fell silent.

“Ambassador Dannyl and Lord Lorkin,” the slave announced.

One of the men stepped forward, smiling. He had the typical broad-shouldered stature of his race, but there was a little grey in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth gave his face a cheerful expression. His jacket was a dark blue with gold stitchery, and there was an ornate knife in his belt.

“Welcome to Arvice, Ambassador Dannyl, Lord Lorkin,” he said, glancing at Lorkin briefly before turning his attention back to Dannyl. “I am Ashaki Achati. My friends and I have been waiting to greet you, and give you your first taste of Sachakan hospitality.”

Ashaki Achati. Dannyl felt a small rush of excitement as he recalled the name. A major political player, and friend to the Sachakan king.

“Thank you,” Dannyl replied. “I…” He looked at Lorkin and smiled. “We are flattered and honoured.”

Ashaki Achati’s smile widened. “Let me introduce you both to everyone.”

Voices filled the room again as Achati called over the rest of the men, individually or in pairs, to meet Dannyl. One portly man was introduced as the king’s Master of Trade; a short, stooped man turned out to be the Master of Law. The Master of War seemed a strange choice – thin for a Sachakan, and overly flippant in manner for such a weighty and serious role. The Master of Records’ friendliness seemed forced, but Dannyl picked up no dislike in his manner, just a hint of boredom.