When Takado had attacked the village Hanara had been shocked and puzzled. But his master never did anything without a reason. So why had he done it?
Hanara looked up at the men sitting around the fire and felt his empty stomach sour. Ichani. Exiles and outcasts. Company unworthy of his master, who owned land and was a respected ashaki. Some were familiar. All had been Takado’s friends for years. In the beginning none of them had been outcasts. But after the first had found himself homeless after a feud with his brother ended badly, the others slipped out of respectability one by one. Sometimes by their own doing. Sometimes not. Takado had helped them in secret, sending supplies and hiding them from their enemies.
A faint whistle nearby brought all heads up, eyes searching the darkness. Footsteps told where to look. Then magical globes of light weaved into the clearing close to the ground, casting an eerie glow on the undersides of the faces of the men approaching.
Takado. As always, Hanara felt a thrill of both fear and relief. He never felt safe around other Sachakan masters if Takado was not present, yet he also feared Takado. His master had not yet punished him for ignoring the signal for so long. He might yet do so. He might yet have plans to kill Hanara, or send him to his death.
Hanara would have assumed Takado had not killed him because he needed a source slave, if his master hadn’t returned to Kyralia with a new source slave. He looked back at the thin young man waiting by Takado’s tent. Jochara hadn’t said a word to Hanara, but his unfriendly stares made it clear he had not expected to be sharing his role with his predecessor.
As Takado and his two companions joined the ichani, Hanara hurried forward and placed the low wooden stool he’d been holding on the ground. His master sat down, not sparing him a glance.
The Sachakans who had left with Takado to see the ruins of Mandryn were unfamiliar. Like the ichani, they wore knives in jewel-encrusted sheaths on their belt to indicate they were magicians. Their own slaves brought stools for their masters to sit on.
“Well?” Rokino, one of the outcasts, asked. “What did you think, Dachido?”
“Looks like it was an easy target,” the newcomer replied. Kochavo, his companion, nodded in agreement.
All turned to look at Takado, who smiled. “They’re all easy targets. Some easier than others. We could take a quarter of the country for ourselves with no real resistance. No immediate resistance, that is.”
“Could we hold it?” Dachido asked.
“To do so permanently we will have to take the whole country, which I believe we can do, with careful planning.”
Kochavo looked thoughtful. “The whole country. Reconquer Kyralia. If the emperor wished this, he would have done it already.”
Takado nodded. “The emperor believes it is not possible. He is wrong.”
Dachido frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
“I have examined Kyralia’s defences for myself,” Takado told him. “They have perhaps a hundred magicians, many of whom have never been trained to fight – except in some silly game they play. Most of the time they bicker with each other, never agreeing on anything. Those who live in the city despise those who live in the leys, who distrust them in return. Their king is young and inexperienced with about as much authority over his people as our emperor has over us. The commoners hate the ruling class and are uncooperative and defiant. Their magicians are only allowed, by law, to take strength from apprentices – and many do not even have those.” He smiled. “They are foolish and weak.”
“Some would say much the same of us,” Dachido said, chuckling. Then he sobered. “You are asking us to defy the emperor’s wishes. He has made it clear he will punish anyone who threatens the peace between Sachaka and its neighbours.”
Takado said nothing. He rose and paced around the fire, frowning, then he stopped before the two newcomers.
“The emperor knows that Sachaka may face civil war. Better the landless and disinherited unite to gain new land than fight over the old. If we win enough support, and demonstrate that victory is possible, Emperor Vochira will be forced to endorse a conquest of Kyralia. He may even join us.”
“More likely he’ll send someone to kill us,” Dachido said darkly.
“Only if there are too few of us. The more of us he has to kill, the more allies he has to apologise to and compensate, and the weaker he will appear.” Takado’s teeth flashed in the light of the fire. “Some will join us without much urging, because they have nothing better to do, or love a good fight. Others will join us once they hear how much support we have gained. Even more will come when we have a few victories to our name. Still more will want some of the prizes – land, wealth, fame, power.”
Dachido frowned. He was older than the other outcasts, Hanara saw. His eyes were not afire with excitement at the thought of real battles, of conquest or power. The suggestion they defy the emperor clearly worried him.
The man looked down at the fire and sighed. “I am not the only one who believes Sachaka is in danger of turning on itself,” he said heavily. “Whether we act or not, we face conflict within. This... this may be what we need to minimise that.”
“You see now why I, an ashaki, propose this?” Takado asked quietly. “Not for land or wealth; I have my own. I am no outcast, though I am not ashamed to fight with outcasts.”
Dachido nodded. “You have everything to lose.”
“I do this not just for my friends,” Takado gestured to the two ichani. “But for all Sachaka.”
“I see that now,” Dachido acknowledged. “Kochavo and I will talk.” He looked up at Takado. “We will give you our decision tomorrow morning.”
Takado nodded, then glanced at Hanara. “Then let me offer you a cup of raka to refresh your bodies and minds.”
Even before he had finished speaking, Hanara was hurrying towards Takado’s pack. But then he skidded to a halt. Another was there already. Jochara held the raka powder. With a smug gleam in his eyes, the young man hurried to serve the visitors. Takado said nothing, not caring who served him so long as his needs were fulfilled.
Hanara watched the other slave. The man was young, lithe and unhampered by the stiffness of healed muscles and scars. He was also a source slave, judging by the scars on his palms, but too old to be one of Hanara’s progeny.
Hanara watched and felt worry and resentment stir inside him.
The ride to meet Narvelan seemed to take the whole night. The only light they had was the moon, which kept retreating behind clouds, and a tiny dim globe light created by Lord Werrin that hovered over the ground in front of them. When lights abruptly appeared ahead the relief that swept through Tessia was so powerful she felt tears spring into her eyes. She blinked them away, annoyed at herself. There were more appropriate things to cry about than the prospect of food, sleep and finally getting off a horse.
The lights were held by four men on horseback. One rode forward and held his light high.
“Lord Dakon,” he said.
“Yes,” Dakon replied. “This is Lord Werrin, Apprentice Jayan and Apprentice Tessia.”
“Lord Narvelan told us to wait here for you. I am to escort you to the camp.”
“Thank you.”
Their guide led them off the road into a forest. After several paces of ducking branches and weaving through undergrowth, they came upon a track and began following it.
Time stretched out, slowed by anticipation.
Then, without warning, they entered a clearing. Small fires ringed a knot of makeshift tents. Well-laden carts rested among the tents and animals grazed, tethered to stakes or within rope-and-stake fences around the grassy area. At the edges of the clearing stood men and women, staring into the forest in all directions. Keeping watch, Tessia guessed. Nobody looked surprised to see Lord Dakon.