by Martin Scott
“Still alive?”
“Just about,” mutters Makri, clambering to her feet. She’s relieved to find she still has both her swords. She brought them with her from the Orcish gladiator pits, and they’re fine weapons. Orcs might be hated the world over, but they make a fine blade. Then I notice something wrapped around my fingers. A strip of Red Cloth, ripped from the main roll. I stare at it glumly. I doubt if anyone will pay me a reward of six hundred gurans for this miserable fragment. I curse, and stuff it in my pocket. Hanama must have kept hold of the rest. As usual, she has now disappeared. With the Cloth. I curse.
“I can’t shake that damned woman off. She’s sharp as an Elf’s ear at this investigating business. How the hell did she know to come to the church?”
I haul myself up the rocky beach. I come to a halt, surprised. Lying prostrate beside a pool is the small figure of Hanama. As we approach she rolls over and groans. Makri hurries and kneels down beside her.
“Someone’s slugged her.”
The Assassin has a nasty wound on the back of her head. She comes round at the sound of our voices. Makri cradles her head and drips a little water from her flask into her mouth.
“Thanks, Makri,” says the Assassin. She struggles to her feet.
“What happened?”
“Someone hit me from behind. I was still spewing up water from the flood—”
“So where’s the Cloth?” I demand.
Hanama stares coolly at me, and turns on her heel. She makes her way up the beach, unsteadily. I stare after her, but don’t bother pursuing her. She wouldn’t answer questions from me if her life depended on it.
Two of the three moons are visible in the sky. Light from them glimmers on a rock about the size of my fist. I reach down and find it is sticky with still damp blood. Whoever hit the Assassin didn’t bother with anything fancy. I slip the rock into my pocket.
Makri and I reach the patch of waste ground that leads into the warehouses beside the harbour. Steam rises from my clothes in the heat of the night. At least the flood water washed off the sewage. We walk past a warehouse and turn the corner and there, right in front of us, is Glixius Dragon Killer. He looks bedraggled, as if he might have been caught up in his own flood.
“You—” he begins, and starts to raise his voice for a spell.
Nothing happens. His spells have run out. I smile.
“Too bad, Glixius,” I say, and punch him in the face as hard as I can. It’s a good punch. There’s a lot of feeling behind it, and a lot of weight. He goes down in a heap and stays there.
“Nice punch,” says Makri, admiringly.
“Thank you.”
After all this magic, there’s something very pleasing about a good punch.
We walk on. Part one of tonight’s mission is a failure. Let’s hope the next part goes better. We have an appointment with Sarin the Merciless but we don’t get far. Before we reach Quintessence Street three landuses hurtle up and screech to a halt beside us. Pontifexes, twelve of them, leap out and surround us. At least, they’re wearing priestly garments, but as they’re carrying swords and look like they know how to use them, I guess they belong to a fairly specialised division of the Church.
“Bishop Gzekius would like to see you.”
Makri’s hands go to her swords. I shake my head.
“Fine. I’ll be delighted to see the Bishop.”
We climb in and the landuses take us off through the still dark streets of the city.
The Head of the Church in Turai is Archbishop Xerius, who has four equally ranked Bishops under him. Gzekius’s parish includes Twelve Seas but he doesn’t live there of course. He lives in a very large villa up in Thamlin, where he gets his relief from ministering to the poor by sitting by his swimming pool eating delicacies from his own private fish ponds.
Gzekius is a large, powerful man, around fifty with thick grey hair. Ambitious too, though he conceals it fairly well under his normally placid exterior. I say normally, because when we are led in he looks far from peaceful. In fact he’s close to exploding and wastes no time in threatening me with arrest, excommunication and a lengthy visit to the prison galleys.
I regard him coolly while he thunders on about the desecration of churches and the general disgraceful state of the citizenry in Turai, particularly me. “It’s all very well threatening me, Bishop,” I say, when I can get a word in. “But I wouldn’t say you’re in too strong a position yourself. I doubt that the King will be very amused to hear that you stole the Cloth in the first place. Illegal for anyone but the King to have it, remember. And of course there’s also the matter of Attilan. Your man stole the spell from the garden. Had he murdered the diplomat before I got there?”
“How dare you accuse the True Church of murder!” fumes the Bishop.
“Not forgetting stealing a spell, and putting the King’s dragon to sleep, then hacking it to death. I’d say you might be joining me on the prison ship.”
I’d hoped to shake the Bishop with this. He doesn’t look shaken, but he does calm down a little.
“Neither myself nor the Church had any involvement in the theft of the Cloth.” He claims that he has no idea how the Cloth came to be in Derlex’s church. “Do you seriously expect anyone to believe that one Pontifex stole a dragon sleep spell from a Niojan diplomat while another helped cut the cloth out of the dragon?”
“Yes.”
“They won’t. Not when the accusation comes from a man like you, Thraxas,” he says dismissively.
“I might not be able to persuade the King or the Consul, Bishop Gzekius, though I’ll have a good try. But I’ll sure as hell persuade Praetor Cicerius. And remember, it wasn’t just me that saw you and Derlex with the Elvish Cloth. So did an Assassin, the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends. And the Orcish Ambassadors must know you had it as well, because they sent their Orcs to recover it. That’s a whole host of witnesses. None of them good witnesses I grant you, but more than enough to persuade the population that you’ve been up to something. A very juicy story for the Chronicle. Very poor publicity for the Church, Bishop, particularly at a time when Senator Lodius is on the rampage. He doesn’t like you at all. What was it he called you last week? ‘Bloodsucking parasites on the poor,’ I believe.”
We face each other in silence for a while. I help myself to a little wine. Makri stands mutely in a corner, uncomfortable in these surroundings.
“I don’t know why you wanted the Cloth. Maybe you just needed some cash. But I think you might have been looking to make a magic-proof room for yourself. You’re an ambitious man, Bishop Gzekius. The Archbishopric comes up for grabs soon. You are not favourite for the job, but everyone knows you want it. So it’s going to take some serious plotting on your part to land it. The other Bishops in Turai wouldn’t like it at all if you had a magic-proof room. Far too much of an advantage in plotting. So they’ll believe my story anyway.”
The Bishop raises his eyebrows slightly, which seems to signify that I’ve got through to him. He dismisses his attendants from the room. I help myself to some more wine. Tastes like a fine vintage.
“Where is the Cloth now?” he demands, when we’re alone.
I tell him truthfully that I don’t know.
“Disappeared down a sewer and it’s probably not coming back. Which is bad for me, as I was meant to be finding it. But that’s not my main problem. I’m meant to be clearing the Princess’s name. That’s what I’ve been hired to do. The rest doesn’t bother me too much. Help me sort that one out and the whole sordid story will never pass my lips.”
Bishop Gzekius sips his own wine, savouring it. “Are you telling me that you were not after the Cloth for yourself, Investigator?”
I shake my head. “Just doing the work I was hired for.”
The Bishop looks at me for a long time. He’s puzzled by the thought that I might be honest. He transfers his gaze to Makri. He’s wondering how far he can trust us.
“I have heard, Thraxas, that you do perform the
job you are paid for. In an honest fashion. Perhaps I can trust you to keep your word. It would, in some ways, be easier than having you killed.”
We stare at each other. It floats through my mind that Pontifex Derlex must have given him a reasonable report of my character, which comes as a surprise.
“And how would you suggest I help clear the Princess’s name?”
I shrug. “Call in some favours at the Palace. From what I hear, the King owes you a few. The Cloth’s gone now, it doesn’t do you or the Church any good to have a major royal scandal.”
The Bishop stares at me for a while longer. “I do have influence,” he says, finally. “Enough to sway the King, possibly. And enough to make your life in Twelve Seas short and full of incident. So be sure never to trouble me again.”
He dismisses us from his presence.
“What did that mean?” asks Makri, as we find ourselves again out in the warm night-time streets.
“I think it means he’ll help the Princess. And give me hell if our paths ever cross again. Well, that’ll do for now.”
I glance up at the stars.
“About an hour till we’re due to meet Sarin. We’ve just got time to go and see Astrath Triple Moon. It’s high time I had some proper sorcerous help on all this. Someone slugged Hanama and took the Cloth and I want to know who. Also I wonder if he might locate Sarin. Tas of the Eastern Lightning couldn’t find her but, whatever means she was using to hide, she might be out in the open now. If I knew where she was I might be able to take her by surprise and get the letter back for free. No point wasting thousands of Cicerius’s gurans if we don’t have to.”
I glance at Makri. “Incidentally, when did you and Hanama become friends?”
“What? We’re not friends.”
“Oh yeah? The way you cradled her head when we found her unconscious seemed pretty friendly to me. And she said, ‘Thanks, Makri,’ when you gave her water. That’s friendly for an Assassin.”
Makri snorts dismissively. “So? She’d been hit on the head. You’re rambling, Thraxas. I only met her one time, when she attacked you in your room.”
I’m suspicious about this, but I let it lie, and we hurry down to visit Astrath Triple Moon. It’s still the middle of the night. The streets are quiet, except for a few bakery workers on their way to light the ovens for tomorrow’s bread.
Our visit to Astrath is unproductive. He doesn’t actually mind too much that I wake him in the middle of the night, but when I ask him if he can locate Sarin he draws a blank. Likewise for the six sacks of dwa.
“She must have left the city.”
“Impossible. She’s due to meet us at the Stadium Superbius in half an hour.”
The Sorcerer shrugs and asks if I’ve anything else he can look at. I still have the fragment of the Red Elvish Cloth but of course he can learn nothing from that. By now I am fairly sick of Red Elvish Cloth. The stuff is nothing but trouble. I hand him the rock I’ve been carrying, the one that was used to club Hanama, and ask him if he can learn anything from it.
“Take me a while, Thraxas. It’s always difficult getting information from rocks. Auras cling to them very tenuously, if at all.”
I tell him to do his best, and meanwhile ask if he can lend us his landus.
“You can’t ride in the city at night.”
“I have senatorial privilege.”
“Really?”
“No. But I’m working for Cicerius, so I can pretend. And we’re late.”
“So which one of us is the Senator?” enquires Makri, as we thunder off in the carriage.
Makri knows full well that women can’t be Senators. I’m starting to think she’s going to too many of those meetings.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In the centre of the town Civil Guards are still out in force because of the tension that hangs over the city. Wild rumours abound about cancelled elections, planned coups, bribery and assassination. It’s even whispered that the Royal Family has been buying drugs from the Orcs and selling them to the population.
The Guards challenge us. “Urgent business for Praetor Cicerius,” I roar, and gallop on towards the Stadium. I have with me a bag of gold from Cicerius and instructions to bid as high as is necessary to obtain the Prince’s letter of credit.
The Stadium Superbius is situated just inside the city walls, over on the east side of town. It’s an enormous stone amphitheatre, built by King Varquius a hundred years or so ago, and it’s a very important place. It’s the setting for circuses, theatrical performances, religious ceremonies, gladiatorial shows and, cause of my recent misfortune, the chariot races. I love the chariot races. Twice a week during the racing season the amphitheatre is packed full of race-goers from every stratum of Turanian society. Praetors, Prefects, Senators, priests, society ladies, Sorcerers, high-ranking guild officials: all mingle with the huge mass of proletarian Turanians there to enjoy a day out and maybe pick up a little money on the side. Prince Frisen-Akan is an enthusiastic race-goer with his own stable of chariots. Even the King sometimes attends. Naturally, the Stadium Superbius also attracts a swarm of petty criminals, and most of the bookmakers are controlled by the Brotherhood or the Society of Friends.
We dismount from the landus and stride into the giant, dark building. Makri has a torch with her. She lights it, casting weird shadows on to the old stone walls from the statues of famous gladiators and charioteers of the past. No one is in sight.
I take out the strip of Red Elvish Cloth I wrenched from Hanama’s hands in the sewer, and rip it in two.
“Tie this round your neck.”
Makri looks perplexed.
“If Sarin’s here then so is her associate Glixius Dragon Killer. This strip of cloth will act as a spell protection charm.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not sure at all. But it might.”
We round the Triumphal Arch through which the victors parade at the end of the games. In front of us, in the shadows, a figure lies prostrate on the ground. We draw our swords and advance carefully. Makri kneels down.
“It’s Sarin,” she hisses. “She’s been clubbed on the back of the head.”
First Hanama and now Sarin. Someone’s making my life easier. I glance around. No one’s in sight, but down by the wall there is a small pile of dull white powder. I reach down, poke my finger in it and taste.
“Dwa. Looks like Sarin had the sacks with her and someone seized them.”
Makri also pokes her finger in the powder and tastes it. This does not seem strictly necessary to me but I let it pass.
I kneel down and start searching Sarin. “She might still have the letter. No point paying for it if we don’t have to.”
Sarin has been clubbed quite viciously and I’d swear she’ll be out for a long time but to my surprise she suddenly opens her eyes. To my further surprise she yanks my long braid in a very painful manner and sends me tumbling away in the dust. She leaps to her feet. Despite her recent lapse from conciousness and the ugly wound on her head, she faces me in a fighting crouch.
“Lost your crossbow?” I jeer, and charge in, aiming a blow of my own. A cunning street fighter, I feint with my left and land her with my right. At least that’s the theory. Sarin avoids both blows and kicks me in the ribs, sending me hurtling backwards. I pick myself up, fairly puzzled at this turn of events. I hurtle in again, figuring to overpower her with my weight, but Sarin performs some fancy move which I don’t exactly follow, except I end up on the ground again. I get pretty mad because I notice out the corner of my eye that Makri, instead of leaping in to help like she should, is actually laughing. I draw my sword. Sarin takes out a small knife. We circle each other. I can’t find an opening. I can’t understand it at all. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d run her out of town before. How the hell she has returned as a hardened warrior is beyond me.
We exchange a few blows. I’m starting to get short of breath. I’ve been fighting and running around to excess in the last twenty-four hours and I don’t
seem to have eaten or slept. The heat is getting to me. I lunge at Sarin and she parries again and kicks my legs from under me, so I fall very heavily to the ground. I struggle up again and turn my head towards Makri.
“Will you stop standing there like a eunuch in a brothel and give a man some help?”
“Just giving you a chance, Thraxas. You told me you’d be down on her like a bad spell if she showed her face again.”
I glare at Makri then make another assault on Sarin. I’ll show her who’s number one chariot round here. She parries my sword with her small knife then hits me so hard with the flat of her hand that I’m sent spinning into the wall where I once more slump to the ground.
Before Sarin can follow up, Makri decides she’s had enough laughs for one day and appears above me with her sword drawn.
She confronts Sarin. “Thraxas tells me you can’t fight.”
I clamber painfully to my feet. “Well, she didn’t used to be able to.”
“Three years in the warrior monastery at Kvalir,” says Sarin, and almost smiles.
“I take it you weren’t studying religion,” I say, grateful for the chance to catch my breath.
“No. Just fighting. I used to find it annoying the way people could defeat me. No one defeats me now.”
“You weren’t looking too good when we found you.”
“Someone crept up behind me.” Sarin the Merciless frowns, and looks a little puzzled. “Normally no one could do that.”
“Maybe your pal Glixius Dragon Killer decided he didn’t want you around any more.”
She shakes her head. “Glixius is no longer my associate. Horm and Glixius double-crossed me. After I cleared the way for them with my crossbow, they tried to edge me out of the operation. They didn’t like sharing their profits with a third party. Particularly a woman.”
She shrugs. “So much the worse for them. I out-smarted them. And it was not Glixius who clubbed me. He wouldn’t be capable.”