by Martin Scott
“You have to stay slim, Makri. You need a good shape under that bikini to earn tips from sailors. Me, I need something more substantial. You can’t solve crimes and face dangerous criminals with only a few morsels inside you. When people see me coming they know they’ve got a problem on their hands.”
Makri grins. As usual she’s carrying a purse on a long string over her shoulder for holding her tips, though I notice that today she has a new one, slightly larger than normal.
“Tips increasing?”
Makri shakes her head. “Same as ever. I’m using this to carry round some other money I’ve been collecting. Don’t want to risk leaving it in my room.”
“What money?”
“Contributions to the fund.”
“Pardon?”
“You know. The fund for raising money to buy a Royal Charter for the Association of Gentlewomen.”
This is the first I’ve heard of any fund, although I did know that the Association of Gentlewomen was applying for a Royal Charter, without which they cannot be recognised as an accredited Turanian guild, and take their place on the Council as a member of the Revered Federation of Guilds, and send an observer to the Senate.
“I didn’t know you were that involved, Makri. How much have you raised?”
She snorts. “Only a few gurans. When it comes to the Association of Gentlewomen people round here are meaner than a Pontifex. Gurd won’t let me collect in here but I’ve been going round the local shops. I wouldn’t say your average Twelve Seas shopkeeper was keen to contribute. I have a few donations from local women though. Ginixa at the public baths gave me five gurans.”
“If she sues me for ruining her business she might be able to afford a lot more. How much does the A.G. need for the Charter?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“How much have they got?”
Makri doesn’t really know. She’s only collecting money, and is not involved in the organisation in any major way. She thinks they still have a long way to go.
“And paying for the Charter is only one part of what we need. Before you even make the application, there’s the large fee to the Revered Federation of Guilds to process the papers. And all the way along the line there’s people to be paid and palms to be greased—the Praetor for Guild Affairs, the Deputy Consul, Palace officials and who knows who else. Apparently it’s standard practice for the Consul’s Secretary to demand a ten-thousand-guran bribe before he lets an application go through.”
“That’s going to add up to a lot of money.”
“It does. And we’re going to need twice as much in bribe money because of the opposition from the True Church and all the other people who don’t want to see the Association of Gentlewomen make any advance. I heard the figure of fifty thousand mentioned. There aren’t many wealthy women in Turai. Even the ones that do run their own businesses have a hard time surviving because the guilds won’t admit them. Well, if they won’t let us in to the Bakers, Innkeepers, Transport or other Guilds, they’re going to have to face us on the Revered Federation Council when the Association of Gentlewomen gets its Charter.”
“Who do you give the money to?”
“Minarixa the Baker. She’s the local organiser. Care to make a contribution?”
“What will the Association of Gentlewomen do for me?”
“Get me off your back.”
“Yes, well, maybe later, Makri.”
“Why not now?”
I look around anxiously. “The place is full of Barbarians and dock workers. If they see me giving money to the Association of Gentlewomen they’ll ridicule me half to death.”
Makri sneers. I will give her some money later. Not right now though, not in public. I have an image to maintain.
“You should have asked the Princess, Makri. She must have a lot of money.”
“She hasn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I heard at last night’s meeting that Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, already asked Du-Akai for some help.”
“Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky? She’s pretty senior in the Sorcerers Guild. Works at the Palace too. Is she involved in your group?”
Makri nods. “All sorts of women are. But the Princess couldn’t make a donation. The King controls her money. And they don’t get on very well.”
“I’m not surprised, if she lies to the King the same way she lied to me. I still wish I knew why she sent me to find that spell. Why would a Princess want to put a dragon to sleep? It’s not like it’s guarding anything. No reason to bother with it that I can see. Unless…”
I break off, and stare into space.
“Sudden Investigator’s intuition?” says Makri, slightly sarcastically.
“That’s right. You might want to put a dragon to sleep to make it easier to kill.”
“Why would Princess Du-Akai want to do that? It’s a present to her father. They don’t get on that badly.”
“I’ve been wondering how all this fits together, Makri. In my experience, when various troubles descend on me, they generally turn out to be connected in some way or other. No one knows how the Red Elvish Cloth was brought into the city. No one knows where it is now. And if the rumours of the Orcs buying it are right, no one knows how it’s going to be transported to them. Well, what if it was put inside something that was very secure, which was going back to them eventually?’
“You mean inside the dragon?”
“Why not?”
“How the hell would you stuff a roll of Red Elvish Cloth inside a dragon?”
“I don’t know. But that Sorcerer who chased me through the sewers is powerful. He might have done it after he hijacked the shipment.”
Makri scoffs. “Dumbest idea you’ve ever had, Thraxas.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I trust my intuition. And my intuition tells me that the Red Elvish Cloth is right this minute inside the new dragon at the King’s zoo. It’s the perfect place—in fact it’s the only place, because dragons are well known for disrupting sorcery. If the Cloth was inside that beast, our Palace Sorcerers wouldn’t be able to detect it, Elvish marks or not. A very clever notion, Makri, very clever indeed. Hide the Cloth in the dragon, wait till it mates with the King’s, then off it goes back to Gzak, taking the Cloth with it.”
Makri considers this. Two Barbarians shout for beer but Makri gestures for them to be quiet. “So what did Attilan have to do with all this?”
“I think he learned of it somehow and decided he’d intervene. Steal the Cloth for his own country. King Lamachus of Nioj would be very pleased with him if he did. Which would explain what Attilan was doing with a spell for putting a dragon to sleep. A Niojan diplomat might be able to gain access to the zoo when it was closed to the public.”
“Where did he get the spell?”
I admit I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure he was killed before he used it. Which means the Cloth should still be inside the dragon, right under the noses of the Palace Sorcerers. Just waiting for me to recover it.
I notice Makri seems even more exposed than usual, and is bulging out of her bikini in a manner guaranteed to make even the most experienced sailor’s jaw drop.
“Makri, how old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“In which case, unless your unique parentage has produced some very strange effects, your breasts should have stopped growing.”
Makri glances at her chest.
“They have. I took a couple of links out of my bikini to make it a bit smaller. I need to earn more tips, Samanatius the Philosopher is starting a new class and I have to raise the fee.”
If Makri ever does make it to the Imperial University no one will be able to say she doesn’t deserve it.
Chapter Thirteen
Next morning Derlex, the young Pontifex, arrives at my door, thrusting a collection box under my nose. He’s come for a donation to the fund for repairing the tower on the local temple, recently damaged in a fire. I rummage around for a few coins. Always p
leased to do my civic duty. Also it might get him off my back. It’s making me nervous, the way he’s always around these days, asking me how I am, encouraging me to go to church. There must be worse sinners than me for him to worry about. Makri appears and Derlex departs with a frown.
“To hell with him,” sniffs Makri, which I guess is exactly what he’s thinking about her.
Makri is reading today’s copy of The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle of All the World’s Events.
“Anything interesting?”
“Another Sarin the Merciless story. Apparently she killed a rich merchant in Mattesh and fled with his money. Fought off three Civil Guards who were after her.”
I scoff at this. “I bet. These news-sheets, they exaggerate everything.”
“How?”
I explain to Makri that I’ve tangled with Sarin the Merciless before. “I ran her out of town about six years ago. She was trying to set up some protection racket. The Transport Guild hired me to get her off their back. Bit of a joke, really. She’s no killer, just some petty hoodlum with big ideas. The papers always like to build these people up. It gives them something to write about. If she fetches up in Turai I’ll soon show her who’s number one chariot around here. Hope she does, I could do with some reward money.”
Makri grins. “Who’s Mirius Eagle Rider?” she asks, glancing again at the news-sheet.
“Sorcerer,” I reply. “Works for Rittius at Palace Security. One of the most powerful Sorcerers in the city, although not averse to dwa, from what I hear. What’s it say about him?”
“He’s been murdered.”
I raise my eyebrows. That is news. Mirius Eagle Rider murdered? Mirius was not an obvious candidate for murder. There isn’t much to the report. Palace Security have it under wraps for just now. But it does contain one notable fact. Mirius was found by one of his servants this morning with a bolt from a crossbow in his back. Strange. A crossbow is an unusual weapon for a murder. Pretty cumbersome thing to carry around as a concealed weapon. It would have to be concealed because it’s illegal to carry one in the city. Too powerful, makes the Civil Guard nervous. Generally they’re only used in wartime.
Deputy Consul Rittius isn’t going to be pleased at such a senior Sorcerer being killed like that. The thought of the Deputy Consul not being pleased gives me some pleasure, although as a man’s death is involved I don’t get too carried away. Strange, though, that a Sorcerer like Mirius should have succumbed to any normal weapon, no matter how powerful.
“Dwa’d out of his head, I expect. Probably had an argument with his dealer. These Palace Sorcerers, they’re all degenerate.”
“Everyone in Turai is degenerate,” opines Makri. “I met people with better manners in the Orcish slave pits.”
With that she goes off to her early shift downstairs, and I head off to visit Jevox at the Guard Station to see if he has any information for me. I stop off at Minarixa’s bakery and arrive at the station still wiping crumbs off my face. It’s already too hot to be comfortable and I’m perspiring freely as I stroll inside. My sword is uncomfortable at my hip. It’s chafing at my skin. I never used to notice that sort of thing when I was a young soldier.
Jevox is on duty at the desk. He’s mopping his brow as I arrive. “Hotter than Orcish hell in here.”
“Damn right it is.” I ask him if he’s learned anything.
“That Sorcerer who’s been chasing you about, Glixius Dragon Killer. He had a big reputation in the west. Very bad, and very powerful. He was expelled from Samsarina a few years back. Involved in an attempted coup.”
Samsarina is a large, wealthy country some way to the west, one of the strongest of the Human Lands. Glixius Dragon Killer. A name I’d never heard before Kerk mentioned it. It doesn’t tell me much. Sorcerers always take on exotic names when they finish their training and don the rainbow cloak. He might be able to kill dragons. He might not. He’s of aristocratic birth though. Any man with a name ending in “ius” belongs to an aristocratic family. It’s one of these class distinctions we have, just like anyone with “ox” or “ax” in their name is low-born. Like Jevox the Civil Guard. Or Thraxas the Investigator.
“Our Prefect got a report he’d been seen in Mattesh. Left suddenly after the royal vaults mysteriously emptied themselves of gold.”
I wonder if he survived the alligator attack.
“Who’s got the Cloth?” Jevox asks me.
I tell him I don’t know. I don’t mention my theory that it’s inside the dragon.
“You know you’re famous now, Thraxas?”
“Huh?”
“Prefect Tholius says you were mentioned in a debate in the Senate. Senator Lodius was denouncing the authorities for their incompetence and he cited you as prime example. Wanted to know why you hadn’t been arrested and charged with Attilan’s death. He claimed there must be some sort of cover-up going on. Is it true?”
I shake my head. I’m not important enough for anyone to cover up for.
“In that case I reckon the Consul might swear out a warrant for you just to shut Lodius up. He’s not going to want Lodius accusing the King and his ministers of incompetence with the elections approaching. Maybe it’s time you found yourself a lawyer.”
I’m sweating and thirsty so I visit the large street market that separates Twelve Seas from Pashish and buy a watermelon. When I’ve got most of it inside me I notice Palax and Kaby, who often busk here during the day. They’re sitting on a small patch of waste ground next to a fruit stall, talking to someone. As I wander over to say hello their companion rises to leave and I smile, because he’s a giant of a man, completely dwarfing the young buskers. He dwarfs me as well, in height if not in girth. He must be close on seven feet tall, with shoulders and biceps to match. Not a man to tangle with, though from the way Palax and Kaby are waving and grinning I guess he must be friendly.
“Who was that?” I ask, while accepting a draw on a thazis stick Kaby offers me. The mild narcotic is still technically illegal in Turai but since dwa swept the city the authorities don’t bother much about it.
“That was Strongman Brex. We used to work with him in the circus, down in Juval. We played music while he smashed rocks with his bare hands. Sometimes he’d come busking with us. He’d hold us up in the air, one on each palm, while we played. We earned a lot of money like that.”
“What’s he doing in Turai? Is the circus in town?”
Palax shakes his head. Strongman Brex has apparently left the circus. He’d had enough of the life and came to Turai looking for proper employment.
“He’s already got a job. Pity, he won’t be able to busk with us.”
“What’s he doing?” I ask, passing the thazis back to Kaby.
“He got a job at the Palace. Working for Princess Du-Akai.”
I blink. “Princess Du-Akai? What’s she want with a strongman?”
“Don’t know. But Brex likes it. He gets well paid and he doesn’t have to smash rocks with his hands any more.”
I leave them to their busking. People round here don’t have much money to spare, and if they try playing up in the better areas of town the Guards chase them away.
Why would the Princess want a strongman? I wonder, as I haul myself up the outside stairs towards my office. Bodyguard? Can’t be—Palace Security provides her with bodyguards. Maybe it’s only temporary employment. Maybe she just needs someone strong enough to cut open a dragon.
I reach the top of the steps. I open the door and gape stupidly at my room. It appears to have been torn apart by a whirlwind. Papers, broken glass and smashed furniture lie strewn in an incredible jumble across the floor. The last of my precious kuriya is seeping through the floorboards. I groan, and rescue what I can. I do more than groan when I see my only bottle of klee lying smashed beneath a chair. I was saving that.
“Goddamn those Brotherhood pigs!” I roar, unsheathing my sword.
The noise attracts Makri. “What’s happening?” she says, finding me about to march outside
, sword in hand.
“That stinking Brotherhood is trying to put the frighteners on me!” I yell. “Well, I’m not having it!”
Madder than a mad dragon, I storm back down the outside stairs. Makri, perhaps feeling that a single-handed assault on Brotherhood headquarters is a little ambitious, grabs her swords and hurtles down the steps behind me.
I am practically blinded by fury. Gambling debt or no gambling debt, no one comes into my room and smashes my last bottle of klee. I don’t have far to go to vent my wrath. There, coming round the corner, is Karlox and his gang, eight of them. They appear surprised as I confront them and start hurling abuse.
“Try threatening me again and you die, Karlox! Who do you think you’re dealing with here?”
Karlox grunts angrily. He’s a man of few words, too dumb to know many. He draws his own sword and the Brotherhood men fan out. I am ready to fight. Makri stands at my side. A landus wheels round into the street, kicking up a spray of dust and scattering the beggars. A head appears from the curtained window. It’s Yubaxas, local Brotherhood boss. He demands to know what’s going on. I inform him that I’m about to administer some punishment to his thugs in retribution for wrecking my room.
Yubaxas actually smiles, something he rarely does. It doesn’t suit him. “We didn’t wreck your rooms, Thraxas. Not worth the effort. You know the position already. You have three days to pay up, then we wreck you.”
He motions to Karlox and his cronies. “Get up to Kushni quick. We’re needed.”
The landus departs. The Brotherhood thugs trot after it. I’m left standing alone in the street, deflated.
“So, who did wreck your rooms?” asks Makri.
I shrug. I suppose Yubaxas could have been lying, but I can’t see why. I don’t imagine he was terrified at the sight of me.
Makri kicks a stone. Trudging back to the Avenging Axe, she is disconsolate. “I was looking forward to a fight,” she says.