by Martin Scott
It’s actually regarded as virtually impossible to carry the blood of all three races. The extremely few people who do so are considered freaks and outcasts from society. In the smarter areas of Turai Makri would not even be allowed into a tavern. Makri gets a lot of abuse about her parentage. On the streets children taunt her with “half-breed,” “triple-breed,” “Orc bastard” and much worse.
I notice her slipping some bread from behind the bar to Palax and Kaby, a young pair of travelling musicians who’ve recently moved to the neighbourhood. They’re good musicians, but busking brings in little money in a poor place like this, and they’re looking hungry.
“Never like to see a man drinking alone,” says Partulax, joining me.
I nod. I have no objection to drinking on my own but I’m happy enough to have Partulax’s company. He’s a big red-haired man who used to drive wagons between the docks and the warehouses up in Koota Street. Now he’s a paid official in the Transport Guild. I’ve worked for him once or twice on small matters.
“How’s work?” I ask him.
“Okay. Better than rowing a slave galley.”
“How’s things with the Guild?”
“Trade’s good, wagons are full but we’re having a hard time keeping the Brotherhood at bay.”
I nod. The Brotherhood, the main criminal fraternity in the south of the city, is always trying to make inroads on the labour guilds. Probably the craftsmen’s guilds as well. Maybe even the Honourable Association of Merchants for all I know. The Brotherhood seems to be all-pervasive these days. More troublesome too. There have been numerous gang fights and killings involving them and the Society of Friends, the criminal organisation operating in the north of Turai. Most of the disputes revolve around control of the dwa trade. Dwa is a powerful and popular drug and there’s a lot of money to be made out of it. The Brotherhood and the Society of Friends are not the only organisations angling for their share. Plenty of otherwise respectable people make a good living from dwa, even though it’s illegal. The Civil Guard doesn’t seem to do anything about it. Bribery works well in Turai.
“You hear about the new dragon?” says Partulax.
I nod. It was in the news-sheets.
“I hauled it up to the Palace.”
“How do you transport a dragon?”
“Carefully,” replies Partulax, and guffaws. “It was asleep most of the time. The Orcs sent a keeper who drugged it.”
I frown. The dragon story is a bit weird when you think about it. The King has one dragon in his zoo and the Orcs have now lent him another one to mate with it. Very kind of them. Except Orcs don’t perform acts of kindness for Humans. They hate us just as much as we hate them, even if we are technically at peace right now. Partulax, another veteran of the last war, doesn’t know what to make of it either.
“You can’t trust an Orc.”
I nod. You can’t actually trust most Humans either, and the Elves aren’t a hell of a lot better when it comes right down to it, but we old soldiers like to air our prejudices.
The bar empties as the dockers in their red bandannas make their way back to their afternoon shifts in the cargo holds, casting not a few backward glances at Makri’s bikini-clad figure. Makri, ignoring their stares and comments, comes over to my table.
“Any progress?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “Got a case. Paid Gurd the rent.”
She frowns. “That’s not what I mean.”
I know it’s not what she means, but what she means is a difficult proposition. Makri wishes to study at the Imperial University and she wants me to help her. This, as I have pointed out on numerous occasions, is impossible. The Imperial University is a deeply conservative body and does not accept female students. Even if it did, it would not accept a student with Orcish blood in her veins. Completely out of the question. The aristocrats and rich merchants who send their sons there would be up in arms. Questions would be asked in the Senate. The Turai news-sheets would create a scandal. Apart from all this Makri doesn’t even have the basic academic qualifications necessary for entry.
Makri scoffs at these objections. She claims that it’s well known that any student can get into the University, no matter how sparse their qualifications, providing they have a rich father to pay their fees or wield influence at the Palace.
“And anyway, I’m going to philosophy night classes at the Revered Federation of Guilds College. I’ll get the qualifications.”
“The University doesn’t teach women.”
“Neither did the College till I insisted. And don’t go on about my parentage, I’ve had enough of that today from the customers. You promised you’d ask Astrath Triple Moon to help me.”
“I was drunk when I promised,” I protest. “Anyway, Astrath couldn’t help.”
“He’s a Sorcerer. He must know people.”
“He’s a Sorcerer in disgrace. None of his old friends would do him any favours.”
“Well, it would be a start,” says Makri with the look of a woman who is not going to stop harassing me until I give in. I give in.
“Okay, Makri. I’ll talk to him.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“Well you’d better then, or I’ll be down on you like a bad spell.”
I ask Makri if she wants a drink but she still has a load of tables to clean so I take a beer upstairs and finish it off while I’m getting dressed to go out. I put on my best black tunic, which is patched, but quite professionally, and my best boots, which are a mess. One of the heels is about to come off. Not very impressive for visiting a Niojan diplomat. Staring in the bronze mirror I have to admit that I’m looking a little shabby these days. Altogether not too impressive. My hair is fine, still dark and long, and my moustache is as impressive as ever, but I’ve put on weight recently. In addition to my expanding waistline I seem to be getting a double chin. I sigh. Middle age.
I tie my hair back in a braid and hunt around for my sword. I remember I pawned it last week to buy food. What sort of Private Investigator pawns his sword, for God’s sake? Turai’s cheapest, that’s what sort.
I consider looking into the kuriya pool, but decide against it. The ability to use kuriya is one of my few claims to sorcerous power. It involves entering a trance and staring into a small pool of kuriya, a rare dark liquid, wherein may appear mystical insights. In a saucer full of kuriya I have occasionally been able to find the solution to an investigation—a missing husband, a thieving nephew, a lying business partner. Very convenient. Solve a mystery in the comfort of your own room. Unfortunately it rarely works. Using magic to draw a picture of the past is extremely difficult. Even Sorcerers with a great deal more power than myself are only sometimes successful. It requires precise calculations of the phases of the three moons and suchlike, and entering the required trance is no easy feat. The Investigating Sorcerers of the Civil Guard will generally only attempt it in the most important criminal matters, and fortunately for Turai’s criminals they often get it wrong.
Another problem is the price of kuriya. The black liquid comes from the far west and the one merchant who imports it keeps his prices high. He claims it’s dragon’s blood, but he’s a liar.
I place the sleep spell in my memory. I can only put one spell in at a time these days, and even that takes a lot of effort. Major spells don’t stay in the memory after you’ve used them, so you have to learn them all over again. If I’m out on a case and think I may need a little outside help I usually memorise the sleep spell, but I find the whole process pretty tiring these days. I’m not much of a Sorcerer. No wonder I have to work for a living. A good Sorcerer can carry two major spells at once. A truly great one can walk around all day with three or even four spells safely tucked up in his memory, just waiting to come out. I should have studied more when I was an apprentice.
I step through the outside door and get to work. I mutter my standard locking incantation over the door, this being a minor spell which I’m able to use a
t will. Quite a number of people can use these minor spells. They don’t require much studying.
“That’s not going to help you much if you don’t pay Yubaxas what you owe him,” comes a rasping voice from the bottom of the stairs.
I glower down at the large man who’s waiting there for me. He’s very tall, very broad, and a virulent sword scar runs from his temple to his collar bone. With his shaved head he’s an ugly brute by anyone’s standards, and one I’d rather not have hanging around to see me. I go down the stairs and stop on the third from the ground so that our eyes are level.
“What do you want, Karlox?” I demand.
“Passing on a message from Yubaxas. Money’s due in five days.”
As if I needed reminding. Yubaxas is the local Brotherhood boss. I owe him five hundred gurans, a gambling debt after some very unwise speculations at the chariot races.
“He’ll get his money,” I grunt. “I don’t need gorillas like you to remind me.”
“You better come up with it, Thraxas, or we’ll be down on you like a bad spell.”
I push my way past. Karlox laughs. He acts as an enforcer for the Brotherhood and he’s a violent and unpleasant man. He’s also dumb as an Orc. No doubt he enjoys his work. I leave him without a backward glance. The gambling debt is worrying me, but I’m not going to let an ox like Karlox see that.
The air stinks of rotting fish. It’s hotter than Orcish hell out here. I redeem my sword at Priso’s pawn shop. I’d like a new pair of boots but I can’t afford it. Nor can I afford to redeem my illuminated staff or my spell protection charm. I get depressed about my poverty. I shouldn’t gamble. I should have stayed at the Palace, riding around in official horse carts and raking in bribes. I was a fool to leave. Or rather I was a fool to get so drunk at the wedding of the Head of Palace Security that I tried to make a move on his bride. No one at the Palace could ever remember an Investigator being dismissed from his post quite so abruptly, not even proven spies and traitors. Damn that Deputy Consul Rittius. He always hated me.
I buy some bread at Minarixa’s bakery. Minarixa greets me in a friendly manner as I am a very frequent customer. Outside I notice she’s put up a wall poster asking for donations to the Association of Gentlewomen. Quite a bold move on her part; many people disapprove of the Association of Gentlewomen, an unofficial organisation, deeply frowned on by the King, the Palace, the Senate, the Church, the guilds and practically every man in the city.
“A sinful thing,” says a voice beside me.
It’s Derlex, the local Pontifex, or priest of the True Church.
I greet him politely, if slightly dubiously. I always feel nervous around Derlex. I get the impression he disapproves of me.
“You don’t sympathise with their aims, Pontifex Derlex?”
He doesn’t. A women’s organisation is anathema to the True Church. The young Pontifex seems quite upset by it. Not only does he dislike the poster, he doesn’t seem to approve of Minarixa’s bakery.
“Women should not run businesses,” he states.
As Minarixa runs the only decent bakery in the whole of Twelve Seas I can’t agree with this at all, but I keep my silence. I don’t want to argue with the Church, it’s too powerful to offend.
“I haven’t seen you at church recently,” says Derlex, taking me by surprise.
“Pressure of work,” I reply, foolishly, which gets me a lecture about putting my work before the Church.
“I’ll certainly make every effort to attend this week,” I say as convincingly as I can, and make my escape. I can’t say I enjoyed the conversation. The Pontifex isn’t all that bad, provided he leaves you alone, but it’s not going to be much fun if he suddenly starts worrying about my soul.
Chapter Four
I step over three young dwa addicts lying unconscious in an alleyway. I sigh. The opening up of the southern trade route through Mattesh was proclaimed by our King as a triumph of diplomacy. Commerce has started to flow but unfortunately the main import has been dwa. Use of the powerful narcotic is now rife throughout the city and the effect on its population has been dramatic. Beggars, sailors, youthful apprentices, whores, itinerants, rich and idle young fashionables—all manner of people, once content to alleviate their sufferings with ale and occasional doses of the much milder drug Thazis, now spend their days lost in the powerful dream brought on by the ingestion of dwa. Unfortunately dwa is both expensive and addictive. Once you’ve taken your dose you’re as happy as an Elf in a tree, but when you come down you feel dreadful. Those regular users who spend part of their lives lost in its pleasant grip are obliged to spend the other part raising money to buy their next day’s supply. Since dwa swept Turai crime of all sorts has mushroomed. In many parts of the city it’s not safe to walk the streets at night for fear of violent robbery. The houses of the rich are ringed by walls and guarded by hired members of the Securitus Guild. Gangs of youths in the slums who used to steal the occasional piece of fruit from market stalls now use knives for street robberies and kill people for a few gurans.
Turai is rotting. The poor are despairing and the rich are decadent. One day King Lamachus of Nioj will come down from the north and sweep us away.
I feel better when I’ve got my sword tucked snugly in my belt and I’m riding in a horse cab, or landus, up Moon and Stars Boulevard, the main street running north to south, up from Twelve Seas docks through Pashish, a poor though generally peaceful area, eventually turning on to Royal Way, which runs west through the upper-class suburb of Thamlin to the Imperial Palace. Attilan, our Royal Princess’s erstwhile lover, lives here on a quiet street popular with young men about town.
I’m prepared to dislike him. Niojans are never friendly to Private Investigators. Private Investigators are in fact illegal in Nioj. Most things are illegal in Nioj. It’s a grim place. Thamlin isn’t. Our well-off citizens make their surroundings very comfortable—yellow and green tiled pavements and large white houses with fountains in well-tended gardens. Civil Guardsmen patrol the streets, keeping them safe from undesirables. It’s a peaceful place. I used to live here. Some time ago. My old house is now occupied by the Queen’s Royal Astrologer. He’s a dwa addict, but he keeps it quiet.
A young Pontifex greets me politely as I turn into Attilan’s private pathway. He’s carrying a bag marked with the sign of the True Church. Busy gathering contributions from our wealthier citizens I expect. A servant answers the door. Attilan is not home and is not expected back in the near future. The servant shuts the door. I never enjoy having doors slammed in my face. I walk round the back. No one interrupts me as I stroll through the small garden, ending up in a patio at the back with a small statue of Saint Quatinius and various well-tended bushes. The back door is solid enough, and locked. I mutter the opening incantation, another minor spell which I can use at will, and it flies open. I walk in. I can guess the layout of the house. They’re all much the same, with a central courtyard containing an altar and private rooms at the back. If, as I suspect, Attilan only has one or two servants, and they’re lounging in their quarters while he’s away, I may be able to carry out some uninterrupted investigating.
Attilan’s office is neat, everything in its proper place. I check the letter rack. No sign of the Princess’s letters. A safe behind a painting almost resists my opening spell, but eventually creaks open reluctantly. I might have made a fine burglar, although anyone with anything really valuable to hide gets their safe locked tight with a good spell from a competent Sorcerer. Inside the safe I find a jewelled box with the Princess’s royal insignia on it. Very good. Things are going well.
I am about to place it in my bag when my curiosity overwhelms me. The Princess specifically requested that I did not open the box and read her letters. Which gives me an irresistible urge to open the box and read her letters. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.
It doesn’t appear to contain any letters. Just a parchment with a spell written on it. I frown. This is definitely the box the Princess asked me to retr
ieve; it carries her royal insignia. The spell is an unfamiliar one, not native to Turai. When I read it through I’m more puzzled than ever. It seems to be a spell for putting a dragon to sleep. Why would the Princess want to do that? I slip it into my bag, and hurry out the back way. It should be an easy getaway but as I plunge through the bushes I trip over something and cry out in surprise.
“Who’s there?” demands a servant, appearing at a run. He stares in horror at me. Or rather, at what’s at my feet, which is a dead body.
“Attilan!” he screams.
The case just took a bad turn. The servant obviously regards me as the man responsible for sticking a knife in his employer. So do the Civil Guards, who appear in less than thirty seconds. Not unreasonable, I suppose, as I decline to offer any explanation for my presence. They drag me off. As I’m being hauled through the garden I sense the faintest aura of something unusual but it’s too fleeting to identify and I don’t have a chance to think about it. I’m dumped in a wagon and driven smartly up to the prison. As the Guards fling me in a cell, I reflect that, of all my reversals of fortune, this is surely one of the quickest.
Chapter Five
The city is divided into ten administrative units, each one overseen by a Prefect, who, among other things, oversees the Civil Guard in his area. Prefect Galwinius, in charge of Thamlin, is a large, tough individual who wastes no time in informing me I’m in serious trouble.
“We got no time for Private Investigators round here,” he snarls at me, again. “Why did you kill Attilan?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Then why were you there?”
“Just taking a short cut.”
I’m flung back in my cell. It’s stiflingly hot and stinks like a sewer. Out of curiosity I try my standard opening incantation on the door, but nothing happens. This is to be expected. All cell doors are regularly serviced by the Civil Guard Sorcerers using powerful locking spells.