by Martin Scott
“I fought a bokana snake bare-handed in the arena one time.”
“Makri. Will you please stop this habit of reminiscing about the arena every time I mention some species of wildlife?”
“Sorry.”
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this is no ordinary statue. I’m determined to take a closer look. And by doing so I will yet again be breaking the law, because it is heresy to interfere in any way with a statue of Saint Quatinius and if the True Church knew I was about to assault one with a sledgehammer they’d have me up before the special Religious Court and off to a prison galley in less time than it takes Bishop Gzekius to guzzle down his evening decanter of fine Elvish wine.
“We can’t let anyone see us or there’ll be trouble. You make sure Soolanis, Quen and Dandelion are out of the way and I’ll find a suitable heavy tool.”
Soolanis, Quen and Dandelion. Just saying the names makes me feel uncomfortable. How did I end up playing host to these three young women? And did they have to be a drunk, a whore and a freak of nature? Sometimes I don’t know what the city is coming to.
“When I was young you’d have been locked up for walking round with flowers in your hair,” I grumble, heading downstairs to the courtyard at the back of the tavern.
There’s a shed here, in which Palax and Kaby stable their horse. Behind this is their caravan. The sight makes me shudder. Normal people have plain wooden caravans painted white, with perhaps a little picture of Saint Quatinius in a yellow frame to bring them luck. Palax and Kaby’s contraption is decorated with murals of God knows what in colours bright enough to sear the eyeball. With those young women upstairs and this pair of weirdos out here, I’m starting to feel annoyed. I marched through deserts and fought battles for these people. You think they might show some respect. Dress normally and get jobs, for instance.
I grab a weighty hammer from Gurd’s tool collection and head back upstairs. I’m now thoroughly in a mood for smashing something. A large statue of the Blessed Saint Quatinius on horseback will do nicely.
Back in my room I carefully pull down the top of the purse. The head of the statue appears from out of the magic space. I have to be careful here, exposing enough of the statue for me to hit while keeping its base inside the magic space. If the statue were to appear fully in my room its weight might go right through the floor and kill half of the drinkers downstairs.
Makri is still dubious about the whole operation.
“It is a good statue,” she points out. “Didn’t you say it was an important work of art? Drantaax was a fine artist. I don’t think it’s right to destroy one of his works. Especially the last one he made before he was murdered.”
I brush her objections aside. Five months studying at the Guild College and she thinks she’s an art expert.
“Stand well back.”
“You’ll break your arm.”
I hadn’t considered this. I’m not backing down now. I let go at Saint Quatinius’s head, aiming at the hardly visible point under the chin where bronze panels have been soldered together. I give it a mighty blow, putting all my weight into it (and that’s enough weight for anyone).
There is an almighty clang. A small dent appears. I hit it again. The dent gets bigger. I let go with another furious blow and this time the bronze panel falls right off, landing with a great clatter on the floor. And there, staring out at us like an angel from heaven, is a beautifully moulded golden face.
I practically yell in triumph. “Gold! It’s gold inside! That’s what everybody’s after.”
I’m happy as a drunken mercenary at getting this one right. “This must be the missing gold, hijacked last month on the way from the mines to the King’s treasuries. And I’m in a for a fat reward.”
I look at the golden head. Underneath it, still covered in bronze, will be a golden body. I doubt if there’s ever been so much gold in Twelve Seas before. Worth so much I couldn’t even calculate it. And no one knows I’ve got it.
Makri and I study it thoughtfully.
“Never see that much gold again,” I muse.
“Definitely not.”
“The King has an awful lot of gold already.”
“And they’re digging more out of the ground all the time.”
I sigh, and start pulling the edges of the purse over the statue. It’s a tempting thought but someone would find out eventually. I’m too old for the life of a fugitive.
“I guess I wouldn’t want to leave Turai right now,” says Makri. “The city stinks, but it has the best university in the west.”
The statue has now disappeared into the magic space. I put the purse back in my pocket.
“I suppose you could maybe just remove a finger before you give it back?”
“Absolutely not.”
Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. I’ll see how the money situation is. Of course, I’m due a big, big reward now. The King is as mad as a dragon over the loss of his gold and the Palace has offered a thousand gurans for information leading to its recovery. I could take the purse to the Imperial Palace right this minute and demand payment, except I’m still working to clear Grosex and find Thalius’s killer, which means I still need the statue.
“Do you think the Star Temple and the Cloud Temple know that the gold is inside?”
“Yes.”
“Who put it there?”
“I’m not sure yet. Whoever it was, the monks want it badly. So does Sarin. So we can now expect all hell to break loose.”
That’s fine with Makri. And it’s fine with me right now, when I’m feeling pleased with myself for solving part of the mystery. I pick up a knife, toss it in the air so that it spins, catch it by the handle, and slip it into its scabbard in one easy movement. Then I get out my grimoire and start memorising the sleep spell.
“If they want it they’re going to have to come and get it off me. I’ll soon show them who’s number one chariot in these parts.”
I take a bottle of klee from my table. It’s empty. I seem to be going through it pretty quickly. I haul out another from my secret supply under the couch and share a couple of glasses with Makri. She shudders as it burns her throat.
“You’re getting me into bad habits.”
“What bad habits? Incidentally, what’s so great about fighting a bokana snake? I killed plenty of bokana snakes when we marched through the jungle. They’re not that scary.”
“They grow much bigger in the Orc Lands. Deadlier poison as well.”
“Naturally.”
The sun’s beating down and I’d be happy to spend the afternoon sleeping but I’ve work to do. As I strap on my sword and head on out, I remember I swore I wasn’t going to work any more this summer. So much for that. If I pick up a nice reward for the stolen gold I’m going to spend the autumn and winter propping up Gurd’s bar swapping war stories with anyone who cares to join me.
I notice two Brotherhood men in the area, still nosing around, looking for Quen. And someone else I recognise as an Investigator from uptown, probably hired by the Innkeepers Guild. I scowl. All I need now is for Sarin to pop out from behind a wall and start firing crossbow bolts at me.
The main law courts are close to the business area of Golden Crescent. It’s an important part of town and the law court itself is a splendid building with thirty columns at the front and a portico of gleaming white marble. It’s situated in a large public forum with a fountain and statues of assorted saints and past kings. The whole thing was built for the glorification of the city a couple of hundred years ago by King Sarius-Akan after he defeated Mattesh in battle and arrived home with a fair amount of booty to spare.
I used to come here often when I was Senior Investigator at the Palace. Any time I walked in, attendants would greet me politely and barristers from the Abode of Justice would rush to meet me to see what news I brought of my investigations. Those days are long past. If anyone here recognises me, they don’t show it. There’s no point in being polite to a man who’s los
t all social status, and you can’t lose much more social status than I did when I was bounced out of the Palace for drunken misbehaviour.
I finally get to see Grosex, in the underground cells. He’s sitting on a small wooden bunk and looks as if he hasn’t slept or eaten for some time.
“How did the first day of the trial go?”
“Badly.”
“How’s your public defender?”
“Still reading up on the case.”
Grosex is pale and noticeably thinner than he was a week ago when they arrested him. I can tell he’s a man who’s given up hope. I try and reassure him, telling him I’m following up a number of leads and so on.
“I expect to have the real killer soon.”
“Soon enough to stop them from hanging me?”
“Of course.”
That’s close to a lie. The trial probably won’t last more than another two days. If he’s convicted he’ll be executed soon after that. Turai’s judiciary waste no time once they’ve found someone guilty. As a full citizen of Turai, Grosex will have the right of appeal to the King if sentenced to death, but the King never likes to buck public opinion by being too lenient. He’s worried it’ll give Senator Lodius’s Populares a stick to beat him with, with crime being so bad in the city these days.
I question Grosex intensely for an hour and I don’t learn anything. As far as he was concerned, it was just another day at the workshop till he found Drantaax with a knife sticking in him.
“When did you last use the knife?”
He doesn’t remember exactly, but he used it at work frequently so it was bound to have his aura on it. I tell him not to worry.
“There’s plenty of ways to fake a man’s aura on a knife. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
I wonder out loud if Calia might have killed her husband, but Grosex doesn’t think this is likely. He knows she was bored, but she didn’t hate him. On the contrary, she was rather grateful that she didn’t have to live in Twelve Seas any more.
“You know anything about some illegal gold?”
He looks at me blankly. I don’t tell him the full facts about the golden statue, but I let him know that Drantaax was mixed up in the gold heist somehow.
Grosex vehemently denies that the sculptor could have had any part in the crime. I’m certain that Drantaax couldn’t possibly have filled up the bronze statue with gold in his workshop without his apprentice being aware of it so I tell him not to bother putting on an act.
“Drantaax is dead, so you don’t have to defend him. And you haven’t much time left. Figuring out where Drantaax acquired the gold might get me to his killer more quickly, so if you know anything you better spill it right now.”
Poor, thin, pale Grosex seems to give up completely. He slumps on the hard wooden chair, his head in his hands, staring at the bare stone floor.
“I knew he would never get away with it,” he sighs. “Now he’s dead. If you expose him he won’t even have his reputation left.”
“You like his reputation more than your own life?”
Grosex considers it. Finally he decides that he likes his life better but it’s a closely run thing. He doesn’t feel like struggling any more. I think he might even be starting to regard the noose as a welcome release. I never like it when my clients get like that.
“It was the gambling that started it.”
“Gambling?”
“Drantaax would bet on anything. He was never away from the Stadium Superbius in the chariot season. Other times he’d place bets on the out-of-town tracks. It got so he was in so much debt everywhere we could hardly get a delivery of marble any more.”
I start to warm to Drantaax. He doesn’t sound like such a bad guy for an artist.
“Did he drink?”
“Way too much.”
You think these artists are dull and they turn out to be okay after all.
“He’d remortgaged the house, and he was about to lose it. Calia knew nothing about it and he was desperate she shouldn’t find out.” He laughs ruefully. “Not that she would have cared particularly. Poor Drantaax was crazy about her, but she didn’t care anything for him. I figure she was involved with someone else, but I don’t know who. People thought it was me, but they were wrong.”
So Drantaax, heavily in debt, addled by drink and desperate for a way out of trouble, was more than interested when a solution presented itself in the form of a visitor who made the unusual enquiry as to whether the sculptor could hide a large amount of gold inside a statue. The new statue of Saint Quatinius to be precise.
“Why Saint Quatinius?”
“Because it’s heretical to interfere with a statue of the saint. Even if Sorcerers from the Abode of Justice were scanning the city looking for the gold, they would never look inside a statue of Quatinius. It would be blasphemous.”
That’s true. It hadn’t occurred to me before. Sorcerers have a shaky relationship with the True Church at the best of times. No Sorcerer is going to risk the wrath of the Church by interfering with its most important religious icon.
“The plan was to let the gold stay in the statue when it was placed outside the city in the shrine, then remove it later when the heat died down. Drantaax was paid enough to cover his debts and get his business back on its feet.”
“Who was behind it?”
Grosex doesn’t know. He never even saw the person who made the arrangements. Drantaax told him about it as it was impossible to hide the operation, but Grosex is very hazy on the details. He has no idea who might have killed Drantaax. He doesn’t seem to know much about anything, and I can’t prise any knowledge of the monks or Sarin from him.
“Who else knew about the gold heist?”
“No one. Drantaax swore me to secrecy. I never breathed a word.”
“Didn’t it bother you to get caught up in this? Even if Drantaax hadn’t been murdered, you were quite likely to end up in jail as an accessory to stealing the King’s gold.”
“What could I do? Go and report my employer to the authorities? No other sculptor would ever take me on to finish my apprenticeship. I’d have been in trouble with the authorities anyway. No one would have believed I wasn’t involved. Besides, Drantaax was the greatest artist in the city. One of the greatest anywhere. I didn’t want to be the man responsible for sending him to a prison ship.”
A Guard enters the cell to tell me that time is up. I discreetly slip Grosex a couple of thazis sticks before I depart. Might cheer him up a little. I care for my clients. It’s illegal, of course, but what can they do to a guy they’re going to hang soon anyway?
“I’ll have you free in no time,” I say in parting, as much to impress the Guard as anything. A brief depression settles on me. Ever since I saw the miserable little room in Twelve Seas where Grosex lived, and learned that he had no friends or family, I’ve been trying to avoid feeling sorry for him. Seeing him sit there in his cell waiting to be hanged, it’s impossible not to.
“Well, you look as miserable as a Niojan whore,” comes a robust voice.
It’s Captain Rallee. I scowl at him, and stop looking miserable. I’m not going to let Captain Rallee know that I’ve started to pity my clients. He tells me I’m just the man he’s looking for.
“Still trying to clear Grosex? Leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?”
“I’d have been further on if Prefect Tholius hadn’t arranged things so I couldn’t see my client.”
The Captain shrugs. “Tholius never bothers with the fine points of the law. He’s a fool. Dumb as an Orc in fact. But it makes little difference in this case because Grosex is guilty, as you probably know by now.”
“No evidence he did it.”
“No evidence? It was his knife, and his aura was all over it.”
“Come on, Rallee. There’s plenty of ways to fake that.”
“No. There are only a few ways to fake it. And they all need grade-A skills in sorcery. Are you saying that some high-level Sorcerer went all the way to Drantaax�
�s workshop just so he could stick a knife in the sculptor and blame the apprentice? Not too likely. Anyway, it didn’t happen, because Old Hasius the Brilliant says no sorcery was used in the workshop and I’ll take his word above yours any day. So will the court.”
“What motive could he have?”
“Calia probably. Kill the employer and set up with his wife. It’s not smart, but it’s not uncommon either. I remember you covered a couple of cases like that before you got slung out the Palace. Face it, Thraxas, you’re on a loser with this one. When it comes down to pulling dumb strokes like trying to get me to believe that two thugs off the street who attacked you also killed Drantaax, it’s time to hand in your toga. But that’s not what I wanted to see you about. What’s going on with the monks that are infesting the city?”
“Monks infesting the city? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure you haven’t, Thraxas. Except you have one for a client. The Venerable Tresius. Better make sure you don’t annoy him, he was empty-hand-fighting champion of the Northern Army forty years back. I hear he hasn’t withered with age. What’s he hired you for?”
Captain Rallee should know by now that I never discuss my clients’ affairs with the Civil Guard.
“He didn’t hire me. He just dropped in to swap a few ideas about consubstantiality. ”
“And what the hell is that?”
“A complicated religious matter relating to the precise nature of the Divinity.”
“Funny, Thraxas, funny. Is that what you were discussing when you were hauling your fat butt over the wall up at the villa in Thamlin the other night? Don’t look so surprised. You’re not so hard to identify. Neither is Makri. The Guards who saw you going over the wall tell me you still move well for such a big man. What was the fighting about?”