by Martin Scott
“Three warrior Orcs. Just up the hill. We dispatched them. You’d better have the local militia scour the area in case there’s more.”
Realising that I’m serious, he hurries away to raise the alarm while Makri and myself head towards the house. The villa’s extensive gardens are partially submerged after the weeks of rain. Two servants take our mounts off to the stables.
The experience with the Orcs hasn’t put me off my mission. I have a living to earn. My instructions from Mursius are to talk to his wife and find out what she did with the works of art she sold. He didn’t require me to be subtle about it, and I’m not planning to be. Just a few quick questions, find out where the loot is, then recover it.
My plan for a few quick questions goes wrong right away when a well-spoken young woman informs me that Sarija, Mursius’s wife, can’t see anybody just now.
I wave this away.
“Mursius sent me.”
“I know,” she replies. “But you can’t see her.”
“Why not?”
“She’s unconscious from dwa.”
I stare at the young woman in surprise. One might have expected something more subtle.
She shrugs. “It’s the truth. I’m only paid to look after her, not tell lies.”
I get the strong impression that she’s had more than enough of taking care of Sarija.
“If you want to wait she’ll probably recover in a few hours. You can dry yourself in the guest rooms. I’ll have a servant bring you some refreshment.”
The young woman’s name is Carilis. She is pretty, in a bland sort of way. She speaks with the cultured voice of Turai’s elite and is rather expensively dressed in one of these long white gowns they charge a fortune for in the market. She was obviously disconcerted by Makri’s appearance. I wonder why she’s playing nursemaid to a Senator’s wife.
Shortly afterwards I’m drying myself in front of a fire as Makri roots around in the extensive window boxes decorating the large bay window. There’s a tray of food in front of us and a flagon of wine on the table. We wait for a while, which is okay with me. I charge by the hour and if a few of these hours involve sitting around eating and drinking I’m not going to complain. I’ve just begun to feel comfortable when the door opens and a woman walks in. She is as white as a ghost and just about as healthy-looking.
“I’m Sarija,” she says. “And it’s time for you to get the hell out of my house.”
She picks up the flagon of wine. For a second I think she’s about to throw it at me—Senators’ wives are notoriously bad-tempered—but instead she puts it to her lips and pours a healthy slug down her throat. She coughs violently, throws up on a very expensive-looking rug then keels over unconscious.
We stare at her body, prostrate on the floor in a pool of wine, vomit and broken glass.
“I’ll never really fit in with polite society,” says Makri.
I shake my head. “Senators’ wives. They get worse every year.”
I think about helping her up but I’m not really in the mood. I stride out into the corridor and holler for someone to come and help. Round the corner marches an Army Captain with eight armed men at his back. That’s more help than I was really expecting. They’re accompanied by the gatekeeper.
“He’s the one.”
The Captain wears a red tunic covered by a silver breastplate. He’s extremely wet and doesn’t look friendly.
“What’s the idea of sending me on a fool’s errand looking for Orcs?” he demands.
I explain to him that it was not a fool’s errand. The Orcs were there and Makri killed them.
“Makri?”
I lead him into the room. When confronted by a Senator’s wife lying stretched out on the floor and a young woman in a chainmail bikini with an axe slung over her shoulder, the Captain becomes even more agitated.
“What the hell is going on here?” he demands.
“Just looking,” says Makri, and shifts around rather furtively.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “They haven’t come about the plants.”
The Captain strides over to Sarija. I’m thinking that we might have some awkward explaining to do but fortunately at that moment Carilis appears. The Captain seems to know her and makes no comment as she attends to the Senator’s wife. He turns back to me.
“Well?”
“We’re down here on business at the request of Senator Mursius. And we met some Orcs. Didn’t you find the bodies?”
He didn’t. Nor did he find any trace of a fight. Not even a footprint.
“The rain must have washed it all away.”
“Very convenient. And would the rain also wash their aura away?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Well, we went there with a Sorcerer. A very important local man. He wasn’t at all pleased to have the Army dragging him outdoors on a day like this. He was just settling down with a glass of wine and a new book of spells. But we told him it was important. A sudden appearance of Orcs.” The Captain fixes me with a grim stare. “The Sorcerer couldn’t find any sign of them. Not the slightest trace of an Orc’s aura. So what have you got to say about that?”
“Maybe he’s out of practice…”
“Out of practice?” roars the Captain. “I’m talking about Kemlath Orc Slayer! Back in the war he detected enough Orcs to fill the Stadium Superbius.”
“Really? Kemlath Orc Slayer? I’d no idea he lived down this way.”
“Well, he does. And he’s not at all pleased at being hauled out of his villa on a wild Orc chase. Thanks to you the country’s in an uproar and I’ve spent the afternoon up to my knees in mud instead of sitting warm and dry in the barracks.”
He goes on for some time, much of it in language he really should not be using in front of a young female servant of good birth. I’m pretty sure he’s about to turn us over to the local Civil Guards just to teach us a lesson but eventually he seems to run out of steam and simply tells us to leave and never come back.
“If we see you round this way again, you’ll be sorry.”
“What about our investigation?” protests Makri.
The Captain turns to his Sergeant. “This is what it’s like in Turai these days. Degenerate. They have Orcs dressed in bikinis working as Investigators.”
For a moment I think Makri’s about to explode. I quickly pick up the magic dry cloak and toss it at her.
“Fine, Captain. Sorry to bother you. We’ll be on our way…”
I drag Makri out of the room and outside as quick as I can.
“If you attack eight soldiers it’ll only lead to more trouble.”
We find our horses and start back to Turai. The rain is pouring down in torrents. Makri is in such a bad mood about the Captain calling her an Orc that I let her keep the magic dry cloak. Meanwhile I am as wet as a Mermaid’s blanket. What a waste of time. As we pass the spot where the Orcs confronted us I halt and sniff the air, trying to pick up any trace of their aura. I certainly have enough of my old sorcerous skill left to detect the aura of Orcs for some time after they’ve departed.
“Nothing,” I grunt. “It’s gone. Someone has magically cleaned it away.”
A huge flash of lightning rips the sky apart. Another storm. It’s a two-hour ride home. A long journey in the pouring rain and all I get for my troubles is a Senator’s wife throwing up over me.
“Hello, Thraxas!”
I recognise that voice. A Sorcerer, resplendent in the most luxurious rainbow cloak I’ve ever seen, steps out from his shelter underneath a tree.
“Never did learn to control the weather!” he booms, in a loud, hearty voice I haven’t heard for fifteen years.
“Kemlath!”
“Any good with weather spells?” he asks.
“I’m no good at any spells,” I admit. “I never took up my studies after the war.”
I introduce Makri. Kemlath, being a powerful Sorcerer, will of course immediately realise that she is one quarter Orc but for once it makes no di
fference. He’s a large, hearty man with a great black beard and mounds of gold and silver jewellery. He’s obviously done well for himself since we last met.
“Kemlath and I fought beside each other in the Orc Wars,” I explain to Makri, who’s puzzled at the appearance of this large, colourful stranger. He earned the name of Orc Slayer from the fine military power of his spells. He sent many an Orc to an early grave and brought the Orcish war dragons crashing down from the sky. Afterwards he was held high in the city’s esteem and became an important man in the Sorcerers Guild. He was a brave man too. He didn’t just hide behind his sorcery. When his magic ran out, as every Sorcerer’s did eventually during the relentless assault, he picked up a sword and stood with us in the last desperate defence.
“What brings you here?”
I tell him I’m doing a little work for Senator Mursius.
“I didn’t know you’d moved down to Ferias.”
“Yes. It suits me well here, on the coast. The weather’s milder—apart from this damned rain—and I’ve built a villa. I grew fed up with the city some years ago. It’s not the place it used to be.”
I agree with him there.
“What’s this about Orcs?” he asks me.
I tell him the story.
He nods. “Well, Thraxas, if it was anybody but an old fighting companion I’d say they were lying, or hallucinating, but I know you too well for that. If you say there were Orcs here, that’s good enough for me. But I can find no trace of them. And tracking Orcs is a speciality of mine. I’d swear I could tell if an Orc had been here, no matter how much another Sorcerer might have cleaned the area.”
The rain beats down. Kemlath invites us back to his villa. We refuse, albeit reluctantly, as we both have to get back to Turai. He promises to look into the matter more fully, and report to me if he comes up with anything.
“Now you know where I am. Be sure to visit!” he says in parting.
“Not a bad guy for a Sorcerer,” says Makri, as we ride off.
“One of the best,” I agree. “I always liked him. When the weather clears up I’ll take him up on his invitation. As King’s Sorcerer in Ferias he is bound to be rich. Did you see the amount of gold and silver he was wearing?”
It’s deep into the night when we arrive back at the city. Our horses are exhausted from plodding through mud. It’s past the time when the gates are normally shut but I know the gatekeeper and he lets us in.
“Working late, Thraxas?” he calls down from his vantage point.
“Sure am.”
“Going well?”
“Better than rowing a slave galley.”
Makri, as ever, is impressed at my wide range of acquaintances. Most people south of the river know Thraxas.
It’s forbidden to ride in the city at night, but it’s so wet and we are so miserable that we risk it. I can’t see many Civil Guard patrols out doing their duty on a night like this, with the thunder still rolling overhead and the rain coming down in sheets.
In the Avenging Axe late-night drinking is well under way, fuelled by some raucous singing to the accompaniment of Palax and Kaby, two street musicians who live in a horse-drawn caravan out the back. They spend their days busking and their nights playing and drinking in the tavern. Gurd gives them free drinks for entertaining the customers, which makes me feel somewhat jealous as I grab a beer and he chalks it up on my slate. If I don’t make some progress on the Mursius case I’m going to have difficulty paying my bill at the end of the month.
Makri takes a beer and joins me at a table.
“What a waste of time that was.”
She nods in agreement. “Although I did pick up these,“ she says, drawing out some small plants from her bag. They have tiny blue flowers, quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.
“Unusual, I think. I took them from the window box while the soldiers were berating you.”
“Well done. I hope it keeps the Professor happy.”
We wonder what the Orcs were doing in Ferias. Makri asks me if I’m going to report it to the authorities. I shake my head. The city isn’t under attack, so I presume it was some private business being carried out by one of the rich citizens of Ferias. Something to do with dwa, probably. A lot of it comes in from the east. I can’t see why anyone would want to make life difficult for themselves by involving Orcs, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors in a place like that?
I grab another beer and a few pastries Tanrose has left over from dinner. Palax and Kaby take a break from playing music and join me at my table. They share some of their thazis with me; they always manage to have the best thazis in town. I start to mellow out. Today was a waste of time but at least I’m sitting comfortably with a few beers and some happy drinkers. Usually, when I’m on a case, things get much worse than this.
Makri has changed into her man’s tunic. Some sailors shout across, asking where her bikini is. Makri shouts back that she’s not working tonight. They look disappointed. She notices that I’m cheerful, despite the arduous day we’ve had. I tell her I’m always happy when I’m about to win two hundred and forty gurans. She’s still sceptical.
“You might lose. It wasn’t even the favourite.”
“Troll Mangler is not going to lose. I keep telling you, I know the owner. It’s by far the best chariot in that race. It was only six to one because they hadn’t heard of it down in Juval. It’s the surest thing I’ve backed in years. If you had any sense you’d go out early tomorrow and back it yourself.”
Makri doesn’t seem to approve. That’s the trouble with people who are always working. It annoys them when you pick up a little spare money without making an effort.
Chapter Five
Next day I sleep late and don’t wake until I’m disturbed by noises in my office. I only have two rooms, one for sleeping and the other for working. It’s small but it ought to be private. I rise quietly and creep to the connecting door, sword in hand. There’s someone in there all right. I burst through, ready to confront intruders.
It’s Makri. She appears to be searching under the couch.
“What the hell are you doing under my couch?” I demand, not particularly pleased to have been woken up after last night’s drinking session.
Makri leaps to her feet, a furious expression on her face.
“You idiot,” she yells, and then carries on with some harsh abuse. I’m not fully awake and I find this hard to take in.
“What have I done?”
“I lost my money because of you.”
“What money?”
“The money I was collecting for the Association of Gentlewomen!”
Makri insults me some more. I can’t understand what she’s talking about till I hear the words Troll Mangler mixed in with her tirade.
“Troll Mangler? Are you talking about the race in Juval?”
“Of course I’m talking about the race. You said Troll Mangler couldn’t lose! You and your stupid tips!”
“Didn’t it win?”
“No it didn’t,” cries Makri. “A wheel fell off at the first corner! And I went out this morning and put all my money on it!”
This is a staggering piece of news. I sink on to the couch, a broken man. “Are you sure?”
Makri’s sure. She’s been down at Mox’s watching the gamblers who bet on the favourite pick up their winnings, and she’s not very pleased about it. I’m stunned by these terrible tidings and struggle to defend myself against Makri’s accusations.
“I didn’t force you to bet your money on it, did I? This is bad enough for me, without you making it worse. Troll Mangler beaten! I can’t believe it. I was depending on that chariot. There’s been some dirty sorcery afoot in Juval.”
“The only thing that’s afoot is your inability to pick a winner! I never should’ve listened to you. Now what am I going to do? I’m broke and I need fifty gurans—today!”
Makri’s behaviour starts to make sense. I have a fifty-guran piece hidden under my couch. It’s my eme
rgency reserve and is meant to be a secret.
“Is that what you were doing under my couch?” I demand.
“Yes.”
“You thought you’d just take it while I was sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was your fault I lost my money and I need it in a hurry. I promised it to the A.G. today.”
This is such an outrageous statement that I am left practically gasping for breath.
“You promised it to the A.G.? The Association of Gentlewomen? You promised that bunch of harridans fifty gurans of my money?”
“No,” replies Makri. “Any fifty gurans would do. But I need it today. And they’re not a bunch of harridans. You don’t mind me borrowing it, do you? You know I’m good for it. It’s the least you can do in the circumstances.”
“That fifty gurans is my emergency reserve,” I roar, dragging Makri away from the couch. “You go anywhere near it and I’ll run you through like a dog. You already owe me the forty gurans I lent you to pay for last term’s exam fees.”
Makri is now madder than a mad dragon. So am I.
“How dare you rob my office! You think I want to donate the last of my money to that lunatic women’s organisation? Are you insane?”
“I only wanted to borrow it,” protests Makri, wiping some dust off her knees.
“Why do you need fifty gurans for the A.G. anyway?”
“It’s the money I collected for them. I spent two months raising that cash. You know how hard it is in Twelve Seas. Everyone’s poor and the men won’t give anything anyway. I had to move heaven, earth and the three moons to raise even that. I’ve had easier times fighting dragons.”
“Don’t tell me about fighting dragons,” I retort. “I was fighting dragons before you were born.”
I seem to be straying from the point here. I get back to berating the Association of Gentlewomen, which, while not illegal, is not exactly well thought of by a large part of the city, namely the male part.