The room was illuminated by two lamps. Though he could easily have lit the room with a magical light, Dakon preferred the warm glow of lamplight. It reminded him of his mother, who’d had no magical talent and preferred to do things “the old-fashioned way”. She’d also decorated and furnished the seating room. After another Sachakan visitor, impressed with the library, had decided that Dakon’s father would gift him with several valuable books, she had decreed that such visitors be entertained in a room that appeared full of priceless treasures, but actually contained copies, fakes or inexpensive knick-knacks.

Takado stretched his legs and watched Dakon pour wine from a jug the servants had left for them. “So, Lord Dakon, do you think your healer can save my slave?”

Dakon detected no concern in the man’s voice. He hadn’t expected care for the slave’s well-being – just the sort of interest a man has in a belonging that has broken and is being repaired. “Healer Veran will do the best he can.”

“And if he fails, how will you punish him?”

Dakon handed Takado a goblet. “I won’t.”

Takado’s eyebrows rose. “How do you know he will do his best, then?”

“Because I trust him. He is a man of honour.”

“He is a Kyralian. My slave is valuable to me, and I am Sachakan. How do I know he won’t hasten the man’s death to spite me?”

Dakon sat down and took a sip of the wine. It wasn’t a good vintage. His ley didn’t enjoy a climate favourable for winemaking. But it was strong, and would speed the Sachakan towards retiring for the night. Dakon doubted it would loosen the man’s tongue, though. It hadn’t on any of the previous evenings.

“Because he is a man of honour,” Dakon repeated.

The Sachakan snorted. “Honour! Among servants? If I were you, I’d take the daughter. She’s not so ugly, for a Kyralian. She’ll have picked up a few healing tricks, so she’d be a useful slave, too.”