by Martin Scott
Makri says she has had quite enough rejection from Humans to risk more at the hands of Fairies, Nymphs and Dryads.
I wonder where my wife and the young Sorcerer went after running off to the Glade all those years ago. They couldn’t have stayed there long. No Human can spend a night there. Sleep comes on even if you fight it, and then the dreams drive you mad. Literally mad. Every year a few romantic or foolhardy young souls try it, and the result is always the same; they wander off to perish somewhere in the wilds or end up back in Turai begging aimlessly on street corners. The Fairy Glade is strictly for daytime visits only.
Makri says she keeps passing meetings with orators haranguing crowds in the streets, and earlier in the day she’d seen one meeting disrupted by a group of armed men.
“Election. Deputy Consul’s post’s coming up for grabs.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know anything about the city you live in?”
“No.”
I remember Makri hasn’t been in Turai long enough to have seen an election, so I explain to her that the Deputy Consul is second only to the Consul, who’s second only to the King, and that the post comes up for grabs every two years.
“The Traditionals, who support the King, always held the post but last time Rittius won it for the Populares. Since then Lodius’s party has been gaining power. Something to do with the Royal Family bleeding the city dry, no doubt. Cicerius is trying to win it back for the Traditionals.”
“So why all the fighting?” asks Makri.
“Politics is like that in Turai. No one wins an election without bribing some voters and frightening others. The Traditionals generally employ the Brotherhood as their strong-arm men and the Populares use the Society of Friends.”
Makri asks if she’s entitled to vote and I tell her no, women aren’t allowed, which puts her in a bad mood, even when I point out that no one is worth voting for.
“Not even the Populares? Wouldn’t some democracy be a good thing?”
“It might be,” I admit. “But we won’t get it from any party with Lodius as its leader. The man’s nakedly ambitious and cold as an Orc’s heart into the bargain. And he’s going to make a bid for power one day, whether his party wins the election or not. The King should have had him assassinated years ago.”
“Why hasn’t he?”
“He left it too late and now he’s scared. Lodius has powerful backing these days—rich merchants, disaffected aristocrats, ambitious generals and so on. I tell you, Makri, it’s not worth getting involved.”
We play a game of niarit. I win. Makri is displeased.
“What’s this?” she says, picking up a scrap of paper.
“It’s a bag of grapes. Minus the grapes.”
“But it’s written on.”
“Written on?” I say, studying the meaningless scribbles.
“Don’t you recognise Low Orcish when you see it?”
“No. What is it?”
“The language of the Orcish underclass. Not the common Orcish tongue, or any of their national languages, but a sort of pidgin Orcish they use in the Wastelands where there are Orcs, Humans and a lot in between. They speak it in gladiator pits.”
I have to hand this one to Makri. I would’ve recognised standard Orcish characters but I had no idea there was a written form of pidgin Orcish.
“What’s it say?”
“Load, or consignment … in spirit grass place. Spirit Grass Place? I don’t know what that means.”
I sigh. I realise immediately what it means. “I imagine that Spirit Grass Place is Low Orcish for the Fairy Glade, Makri. You might be getting to see it sooner than you think.”
Makri wonders out loud why Cerius, a Praetor’s son, would carry around a message written in Orcish.
“I was wondering the same thing. If the Prince and Cerius are really importing dwa like Kerk says, I can’t see them being involved with Orcs. Unless it’s coming from Horm … which would explain the warning he sent me. If Cerius has got mixed up with Horm the Dead it’s no wonder he’s terrified. He terrifies me.”
“Is Horm a dwa dealer?”
“He could be. He uses it himself, and it’s profitable enough to interest him.”
“There are two letters at the end of the message,” continues Makri. “S and M, I think. Mean anything to you?”
I shake my head. Makri has the afternoon off from work and is due to attend a lecture on Theological Philosophy by Samanatius, one of Turai’s leading thinkers. Much the same as myself, I reflect, downstairs in the bar, as I down a few beers and do some serious thinking.
A messenger from the Brotherhood arrives. “Yubaxas is getting impatient,” he says.
I throw him out of the bar. “I have two days left. Tell Yubaxas he’ll get his money.”
Spurred on to action I return to my musings about the Cloth. I figure that I’m close somehow, and what’s more, when I find it, I’m sure I’ll be able to clear the Princess.
Praetor Cicerius walks into the bar in his blue-edged toga, to the general consternation of the assembled drinkers. They gape in amazement as he crosses over and greets me. Not bad, I reflect, having the Praetor himself call on me. Might earn me a little respect round here.
Upstairs in my rooms he has some grave news. “The Investigator Tuparius has learned that Prince Frisen-Akan is paying Horm the Dead to bring dwa into Turai. Furthermore the Prince has sent a letter of credit to cover the payment. If this becomes known to the public, the government will fall.” The Praetor shakes his head sadly. “My son is involved in passing drugs from that renegade half-Orc Sorcerer to Prince Frisen-Akan. This is worse than anything I could have imagined. How can I explain this to Consul Kalius? Think of the terrible repercussions if word got out! It was bad enough before, when the Populares merely sought to discredit me. If the Prince is dragged into the affair, what chance do the Traditionals have in the election?”
Cicerius insists that he does not care about winning the post of Deputy Consul for himself, but only about the good of the city. Strangely enough, I believe him. He demands to know what I’m going to do.
“What’s Tuparius going to do?” I ask.
“Nothing. After relating this information to me he was murdered on his way home. A crossbow bolt through the neck.”
“You’re not making this investigation sound too attractive, Praetor. How about calling in the Civil Guard?”
“That is not possible. Many of the Guards owe allegiance to Rittius. We can’t risk this scandal getting out. You will have to retrieve the letter of credit and see that the Prince’s name is kept out of the affair.”
Cicerius notes my lack of enthusiasm and enquires in an acidic tone what the matter is. I point out that every man has his limits. Even me.
“If the case involves Horm the Dead, Glixius Dragon Killer and Prince Frisen-Akan, no wonder your son is scared. They scare the hell out of me. Look what happened to Tuparius. Anyway, what do you expect of me? The state should be handling the job, and is it? No, it’s not, because half the forces of the state are in the pay of these people. If you want to stop Glixius Dragon Killer importing dwa from Horm the Dead, get someone else to do it.”
“I am not asking you to do any such thing.” retorts Cicerius. “But my son must not be convicted of these charges. And Prince Frisen-Akan must not be implicated.”
“That’s going to be difficult, seeing as the only way for your son to get off is by naming the Prince.”
Cicerius fixes me with his steely gaze, and demands to know if I am aware of the importance of the affair.
“Yes. I’ll probably get killed.”
“There are things more important to this city than your life, or mine,” he replies. “If Deputy Consul Rittius succeeds in prosecuting Cerius, and disgracing the name of the Royal Family, he will win the election. If Rittius is re-elected, more Senators will move over to Lodius’s party. The Populares may gain control of the Senate. Turai will be torn apart. Lodius seeks nothing less t
han the overthrow of the monarchy, and he will stop at nothing to procure it. He has succeeded in gathering support for his party by promising democratic reforms, but his real aim is to seize power.”
As I said, I take little interest in Turai’s politics but I’m aware that Cicerius is putting forward a very one-sided view of things. Plenty of people support Senator Lodius’s Populares for good reasons. The massed poor of the city have no representation in the Senate at all. The aristocrats are heavily taxed to pay for the Royal Family’s luxury. Our merchants, some of whom have amassed vast wealth, are even more heavily taxed, and also have little representation, being allowed only observer status in the Senate. Among the Honourable Association of Merchants there can now be heard mutterings that, as they contribute so much in taxes to the state, they should have some say in how it’s governed. This has spread to lesser guilds once renowned for fierce loyalty to the King. So the King faces an alliance of disaffected aristocrats, powerful merchants, and city artisans. He can’t give in to this alliance but it’s too strong for him to sweep away. Lodius has artfully harnessed these disaffections. Were I to give the matter much thought, I might well find myself in sympathy with him. After all, Turai has certainly deteriorated in the past twenty years. Unfortunately Cicerius has a trump card to play.
“Do you know that at this moment Deputy Consul Rittius is preparing a list of men who will no longer be allowed to trade in the city? Your name is on that list, Thraxas. If he is re-elected, your Investigator’s licence will be withdrawn.”
I’m not sure if Cicerius is telling the truth. He might be. “Okay, Praetor Cicerius, I’ll see what I can do. You better write me an introduction.”
“An introduction?”
“To Prince Frisen-Akan. I’ll have to speak to him. Don’t look so appalled, Praetor. I promise I’ll be polite.”
I down a few beers and head out, looking for Captain Rallee. I find him easily enough, directing the removal of a load of dead bodies from the corner of the street. Stals are fluttering around looking interested in the prospect of some profitable scavenging.
“Another attack by the Society?”
He nods. They are getting the upper hand in their war with the Brotherhood.
“It’s that damned crossbow killer. He’s now killed four Brotherhood bosses in the past two days.”
The Captain tells me that Choirs of Angels is flooding into the city. It’s now cheaper than standard dwa.
“Won’t be cheap for long, of course. Just long enough for these poor fools to get addicted.”
I mention Horm the Dead. The Captain is interested, although anything happening so far from the city is really beyond his power. No state has much control over what goes on in the Wastelands.
“The Society of Friends is cornering the market. The Brotherhood is going to have to strike back with everything they’ve got. Things are bad enough with the elections, without this happening as well.”
“How come the Society can get away with such a large operation?”
The Captain shrugs, which might mean anything. The higher ranks of the Civil Guard are not above corruption. Nor are senior city officials. When dealing with his superiors, Captain Rallee never knows whether or not he might be talking to someone who’s raking in drug money himself. It would be practically impossible to find any person of influence in the whole city who wasn’t involved in some way or other. All Captain Rallee and his guards can do is try to keep the peace, and pick up the pieces when they fail.
“Is Glixius Dragon Killer still working with the Society?” I enquire.
“We never had any proof he was working with them in the first place.”
“Well, he certainly was when he chased me through the sewers with a bunch of Society men at his back.”
The Captain shrugs again. Glixius Dragon Killer is not on any wanted list, nor can he be proved to have committed any crime. Which makes me wonder who he’s bribing.
“Excuse me,” says the Captain, “I have work to do. A gang’s been robbing pilgrims out at Saint Quatinius’s Shrine. Wouldn’t have happened a few years back. People used to have some respect. Since half the city got hooked on dwa everything’s gone to hell.”
A Civil Guard messenger thunders up on horseback and tells them they’re needed fast up in Kushni where a major confrontation is again taking place between two heavily armed gangs. They depart on the double, and not long after I see Brotherhood men pouring out of the Mermaid with swords in their hands, heading north. Captain Rallee might be right. Everything is going to hell. What’s more, the heat is absolutely unbearable.
Makri returns full of enthusiasm from the philosophy lecture given by Samanatius.
“A great man,” she enthuses.
Perspiration is running down her neck and she douses her head and shoulders with water while she tells me about the lecture. It’s something to do with the nature of eternal forms, and the human soul, but most of it passes over my head.
“I asked him a question and he answered right off,” says Makri. “Without looking at me with contempt, that is. Incidentally, I just remembered someone whose initials are S.M.”
“Pardon?”
“S.M. The Orcish initials on the bag, after the message. It might be Sarin the Merciless.”
I laugh.
“What’s funny?”
“Sarin the Merciless. Sarin the Pussycat more like. I keep telling you, I ran her out of town before. She’s nothing. If she’s the best muscle Horm can find I’ve got nothing to worry about. Just start counting out my reward. Now, I’m off to see a Prince.”
Chapter Twenty-One
On the way home from the Palace I pass three corpses and numerous walking wounded. Two men demand to know who I’m going to vote for. I draw my sword.
“Put me down as undecided,” I growl.
On the corner of Quintessence Lane a crowd has gathered. They’re looking at the young guy who sells dwa there every day. He’s out of business now, with a bolt from a crossbow embedded in his neck. I have a strong appetite for four or five beers.
“How did it go?” asks Makri.
I note with disapproval that she has had her nose pierced.
“Palax and Kaby did it for me. Don’t you like it?”
I shake my head. I’m too old for these outlandish fashions.
“Shouldn’t you be trying to look normal, Makri, to get into the Imperial University?”
“Maybe,” she concedes. “But I like having a ring through my nose. Do you think I should have my nipples done?”
“Who’s ever going to see? You’ve never had a lover.”
“I might have, if all the men in Twelve Seas weren’t such scum. Do you think that Elvish healer will visit again?”
“Yes. But if he finds you with your nipples pierced he’ll panic. Body piercing is taboo to the Elves.”
Makri thinks she could probably change his mind. I refuse to discuss it any more.
“So what happened at the Palace? How’s the Prince?”
I sigh. I can hardly bear to describe how he is. “All the stories about Prince Frisen-Akan are true. Besides being as dumb as an Orc he’s the biggest dwa addict in the city. Not to mention a stinking drunk, a thazis abuser, a hopeless gambler, a heavy debtor and all-round degenerate piece of rubbish. I look forward to his accession to the throne with great anticipation. Incidentally I’m setting out for the Fairy Glade early in the morning.”
“Why?”
“To recover the dwa the Prince is bringing into the city for Horm the Dead.”
“What?”
I shake my head and tell Makri the full sorry tale. Not only has Prince Frisen-Akan sunk so deeply into drug addiction that he barely knows what he’s doing any more, he’s so deeply in debt to so many people that it’s becoming impossible to hush up.
“So he was planning to sell the dwa to make some money.”
Makri laughs at the thought. It is funny in a way. Some Prince.
“He was getting small amou
nts of the stuff from Cerius. Unfortunately that wasn’t enough so he decided to try something bigger. He’s putting up the money for this transaction. It’s the behaviour of a lunatic—if the King finds out he’ll exile him. Which wouldn’t bother me a bit except the Prince dragged Cerius into this madness and if the story comes out then Cerius will probably end up taking the rap.”
“Dump your client,” advises Makri.
“I’d like to, but I can’t. It’s all got too complicated. If Cicerius’s son goes to jail, Cicerius loses the election. If that happens, I lose my licence. Also, Cicerius has offered me much more money to intercept the dwa and bring it back safely. Or rather, bring the letter back safely.”
“What letter?”
“The letter the Prince sent authorising payment.”
Makri gapes. I gaped too when I heard about it from the Prince who, in a rare moment of lucidity, did realise that sending a letter authorising payment for six sacks of illegal drugs, and signing this letter with his own seal, wasn’t the brightest thing he could have done.
If the public learns about it they might as well cancel the election. The Populares will walk it. The people of Turai will forgive the Royal Family for many things but not wholesale drug dealing with a mad Orc Sorcerer. Particularly as the Princess is at this moment awaiting trial for killing the dragon. Poor Royal Family. I’m almost starting to feel sorry for them.
“You shouldn’t get involved,” says Makri.
“Cicerius is paying me six hundred gurans if I can keep Cerius and the Prince out of it.”
“I’ll go and sharpen my swords.”
We hire a couple of horses and set off early next morning. I don’t know who is taking the Prince’s letter of credit to the Glade, so I plan to arrive there first and intercept it. Either that or attempt to make off with the dwa myself and swap it later. Makri has her usual assortment of weapons including some small throwing stars I’ve never seen before.
“Assassins’ weapons aren’t they?”
She nods. “I saw them on Hanama’s belt that night we had the fight. I thought I’d try them out.”
The streets are still empty save for one or two dead bodies from last night’s gang warfare, and the ever present beggars. I’m fairly immune to beggars now, though some of them are so pitiful it’s impossible to be completely unaffected; mothers with misshapen children, men back from the wars with no legs and no army pension, hopeless itinerants going blind with cataracts in their eyes. Turai is no place to be old, sick or without friends or family. Which gives me a slightly bad feeling about my own fate. No one is going to nurse me through my dotage if I’m crippled on a case.