by Martin Scott
“You’re under arrest,” he says.
“Fine,” I reply. “I was getting tired of the rain anyway. What’s the charge?”
“Murder. We found the knife that killed Senator Mursius. And guess whose aura is all over the handle?”
“Archbishop Xerius’s?”
“Wrong. It’s yours.”
The Guards throw me in the back of the carriage.
“Watch him closely. If he tries uttering a spell use your swords.”
Little do they know I’m using my entire magical capacity to keep dry. The Guards keep a careful eye on me as we ride west through Thamlin. The ground rises slowly, sloping up through the wooded area that leads to the Palace. The Abode of Justice, headquarters of the Civil Guards, is located just outside the Palace grounds.
I can make no sense of this development, so I don’t try to. I’m an important man in the city, at least for a few weeks. The Deputy Consul needs me to look after the Orcs. He’ll get me off from whatever phoney charge Drinius and Rittius have cooked up this time.
The Abode of Justice is a large building, fairly splendid I suppose, though you can’t see it in this rain. I used to know everyone here when I was Senior Investigator at the Palace, although Palace Security and the Civil Guards are rivals, and generally fail to co-operate on anything. It takes us a few minutes to enter. The Sorcerer who checks us in takes an age to utter the spells to open the doors and close them behind us. With the unrest in the city, they’ve stepped up security.
I often get thrown in the cells but twice in two days is excessive. I’ll never get anything done at this rate. Damn that Rittius, he’s really out to get me. It strikes me how much I want a beer, and how long it will be before I can get one. Once they put you in a cell, they never hurry to question you, the theory being that if they give you some time to worry about things you’ll be easier to break. Sound theory for most people, maybe, but I’ve been in far too many cells to let it bother me. And I get a good break because there’s someone in my cell already who turns out to be a big racing fan. When he informs me that Sword of Vengeance cruised home an easy winner I’m so pleased I almost forget I’m incarcerated. I matched Makri’s eighteen-guran bet at six to four which means we both won twenty-seven gurans. Makri is edging closer to the sixty she needs. Another couple of wins and she’ll be off my back. What’s more, I’ll have a reasonable stake for the Turas Memorial.
I’m soon deep in conversation about the upcoming race meeting with my cellmate, Drasius. He’s a banker by trade, who’s been having a little difficulty persuading his customers that his accounts are entirely honest. He’s just heard the news of the Orcish chariot coming to town and he’s of the opinion that it might give the Elves a good run for their money.
For the first time it strikes me that there is actually an interesting sporting contest coming up. I’ve been so appalled at my unwilling role in it that I haven’t considered this before. Moonlit River will certainly be a superb four-horse chariot. Lord Lisith-ar-Moh wouldn’t send it up from the Southern Islands if it wasn’t. I’ve seen many Elvish chariots and I’ve rarely seen one that couldn’t cruise past anything we Humans had to offer. It’s said that the Elvish horsemen can talk to the horses, which gives them an advantage. There again, what about the Orcish team? I hadn’t given them any chance, but Drasius the banker points out that Lord Rezaz Caseg wouldn’t send his chariot if it didn’t have a chance of winning.
“Why would he? The Orc wants revenge on the Elf Lord. He wouldn’t enter something that was guaranteed to lose. I figure it’s worth making a sizeable investment with the bookmakers on the Orcs.”
I can see why Drasius might be in trouble with his customers at the bank. But what he says makes sense. So far the only reaction I’ve encountered to the affair has been the outright hostility to Orcs shown by the rioting citizens. I’m a little surprised to find someone who’s more interested in the sporting aspect. It starts to make me feel interested too. Okay, the Orcs are hated enemies and the only good Orc is a dead Orc, but from another point of view, a chariot race is a chariot race and I love chariot races more than a Senator loves a bribe.
“They’ll be giving good odds on the Orcs,” adds Drasius. “Even if the bookies rate it, it’s not going to get many backers in Turai. The Elves will be strong favourites. The bookies might even push the price out on the Orcs to attract a little money.”
This is true. The Orcs are going to be unpopular, so their price is bound to be high. Bookmakers set their odds partly by the chance they give the chariot of winning, but the amount of support for a chariot comes into it as well. A popular charioteer can attract a load of bets, even if he’s not actually riding the best chariot, and when this happens the bookies have to cut the odds just in case he happens to win. Conversely, a good chariot with a chance of winning but which no one wanted to bet on would stay at higher odds. That’s an unlikely occurrence normally—why would a chariot with a chance of winning not be popular? But the Orcs might be a special case. Even if their chariot could win, I can’t see it being heavily backed by Orc-hating Turanians. There might be an opportunity here. To put it bluntly, it might be a good idea to bet on the Orcs. I hate Orcs as much as anybody else, but one has to be realistic about these things. It certainly offers me an incentive to find their prayer mat.
“I expect Senator Mursius’s chariot will have some support for sentimental reasons but only a fool would back it against the Elves,” says Drasius
I didn’t realise that Mursius’s chariot was still in the race.
“Didn’t you hear? His wife’s taken over the stable.”
That’s interesting. You have to admire Sarija for this. Mursius’s chariot is by far the best in Turai. The public would be disappointed not to see it run.
“At least the race will be fair now,” says Drasius.
“How do you mean?”
“I heard a rumour that the Society of Friends was planning some sort of betting coup but I doubt they’ll try it now with the Orcish chariot coming. Too much attention.”
“I don’t see how they could’ve planned anything anyway,” I object.
Betting coups, horse doping and various other examples of nefarious behaviour designed to cheat honest punters like myself are not unknown in the out-of-town meetings, but you can’t do that sort of thing at the Stadium Superbius. It’s too carefully regulated. Melus the Fair, bless her name, is Stadium Sorcerer and she makes sure everything is above board. Powerful, clever and incorruptible, Melus is the only person in the whole city apart from Cicerius that everyone trusts. Since she took over the job from Astrath Triple Moon, there hasn’t been a breath of scandal at the Stadium.
Drasius agrees.
“It’s certainly been better. I lost a bundle while that crook Astrath was meant to be keeping things in order. Damn him.”
Astrath Triple Moon was accused of letting sorcerous involvement in the races go unreported after he was heavily bribed to do so. I helped with his defence. I didn’t exactly prove him innocent—it would have been difficult as he was guilty as hell—but I muddied the evidence enough for him to be able to resign without prosecution. I was as outraged as the next man at the idea of cheating at the Stadium, but Astrath was a friend. And he paid me a bundle. I don’t mention any of this to Drasius.
“All the races have been fair since Melus took over. But that’s what I heard anyway, the Society was planning something.”
The Society of Friends control the north of the city. It’s not impossible they’d make some attempt at cheating, though I really can’t see how they could pull the wool over the eyes of Melus the Fair.
When a guard comes along and takes Drasius away, I’m sorry to see him go.
“Delighted to share a cell with you,“ I tell him. “Remember my name. If you need any help, just call on me.”
Not long afterwards I’m taken to see Praetor Samilius. For a small state Turai has far too much officialdom. We’re ruled by the King but beneath him are a whole
host of elected officials, all of them jostling for power. Next in line to the King is the Consul, followed by the Deputy Consul, and then there are the four Praetors, one of whom, Praetor Samilius, is head of the Civil Guard and based at the Abode of Justice. Then you’ve got the ten Prefects, and a whole Senate to advise them all, and various powerful pressure groups like the Honourable Association of Merchants and the Revered Federation of Guilds and the True Church, not to mention the Army, the Civil Guard and Palace Security.
It didn’t used to be like this. Fifty years ago there was the King, a few officials and a whole host of loyal citizens ready to fight for Turai. We were poor, but strong. Now we’re rich and weak. It’s only a matter of time before Nioj wipes us off the face of the earth.
Praetor Samilius isn’t too corrupt by our standards, but he’s a harsh man with little feeling of sympathy towards the struggling masses. He is a renowned snob. Like many of our upper classes, he has adopted some rather decadent foreign manners, though he did fight in the war, so he’s not soft, despite the vastness of his belly and the rolls of fat around his neck.
“Don’t you people in Twelve Seas ever get your hair cut?” he says by way of an opening insult.
“We’re wearing it long this season.”
The Praetor’s hair is short, grey, and beautifully conditioned. His nails are perfectly manicured, and he smells of perfume. He looks at me with distaste.
“We really should have them washed before we bring them into this office,” he says to his secretary.
He takes a sheet of paper from his desk and tosses it down in front of me.
“What’s that?”
“Your confession. Sign it.”
This gives me my first good laugh of the day.
“What am I meant to confess to?”
The Praetor’s eyes narrow. “You know.”
I remain silent. Samilius adjusts his bulk in his chair. He takes a bite from a peach and drops the rest in a wastebasket.
“Thraxas, I can’t be bothered getting tough with you. There’s no point. Your aura was on the knife that killed Senator Mursius.”
“Says who?”
“Old Hasius the Brilliant.”
I’m shaken by this, though I don’t let it show. Old Hasius the Brilliant, chief Investigating Sorcerer of the Civil Guard, never makes mistakes and is almost impossible to fool. What’s worse, he’s honest. I remain silent.
“Nothing to say? Not going to ask for a lawyer? Maybe you expect the Deputy Consul to come to your aid?” He chuckles. “He’s not going to get involved. Very bad for his reputation. You’re on your way to the gallows. Even Cicerius and his famous oratory couldn’t help you in court. Not for this. Not when you were found at the scene and Hasius places your aura on the knife. Why don’t you make our lives simple and sign the confession?”
I remain silent.
“Very well,” says the Praetor.
He makes a big show of signing some official documents, then informs me that I am being arraigned for the murder of Senator Mursius. I will be held in custody until I appear in court, where the charges will be laid against me. The Guards lead me back to my cell. I’m not feeling too happy with the way things are going. I was depending on Cicerius to get me out of this, but Samilius is right. No matter how much the Deputy Consul wants my help he’s not going to come to my rescue if it’s certain I killed Mursius. It would be too damaging politically.
I can’t understand it. Hasius says my aura was on the knife. How can that be? A really good Sorcerer can fake an aura, just about, but it’s difficult, and it would be almost impossible to fool Hasius. He might be a hundred years old, but he’s still sharp as an Elf’s ear on such matters. If someone stole a knife from me and used it on Mursius my aura would be on it, but so would theirs. Hasius only found my aura. It’s looking worse with each passing second. A jury will convict me on this evidence. If I was in the jury, I’d convict me.
The call for prayers rings out through the Abode of Justice. I get down on my knees and pray. It seems like the smart thing to do. As I finish the door opens.
“Deputy Consul Cicerius and Government Sorcerer Kemlath Orc Slayer to visit Thraxas,” barks the Guard, who sticks his chest out as he stands to attention.
I leap to my feet. “Kemlath! Am I pleased to see you. And you, Deputy Consul.”
Cicerius looks at me very severely. “Are you incapable of staying out of prison for more than one day? I would not be here had I not been persuaded to come by Kemlath. How strong is the evidence against you?”
“Strong,” I admit. “I was there when Mursius was killed and now Old Hasius the Brilliant says my aura was on the murder weapon.”
“And what do you have to say in your defence?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Is that all?”
“What else can I say?”
“That depends on how keen you are to avoid the gallows. This is most inconvenient, Thraxas. I need you to find that prayer mat.”
“And there’s nothing I’m looking forward to doing more. But what can I do if Rittius and his gang are out to get me?”
“Are you saying Rittius has manufactured the evidence?”
“Someone has.”
“I’m sure of it,” agrees Kemlath Orc Slayer. “That’s why I persuaded Cicerius to come. An old soldier like Thraxas wouldn’t murder his ex-commander. Who knows what may have happened to the evidence?”
Cicerius is looking very dubious. As Deputy Consul he really can’t be seen to be continually pulling strings to release a man from prison if that man then turns out to have murdered a Turanian war hero. It would be political suicide. On the other hand, he’s relying on me to find the Orc charioteer’s prayer mat.
“In view of Kemlath Orc Slayer’s opinion that the evidence against you may have been manufactured, I am willing to once more use my influence on your behalf. I shall instruct Praetor Samilius to release you.”
I thank him profusely. He waves it away. “Just try and stay out of trouble this time.”
He turns to Kemlath. “Kindly report your findings to me as soon as possible. It is vital that you come up with something quickly. With the evidence being so strong, I will be unable to keep Thraxas out of prison for long.”
Chapter Eleven
Praetor Samilius is about as angry as a Troll with a toothache.
“If you try to flee the city I’ll have you hacked down at the gates.”
Murder trials are traditionally not held during either of the rainy seasons, nor during festivals. But as soon as the rain dries up, and the Turas and Triple-Moon Conjunction festivals are over, I’m due back in court.
“Cicerius won’t protect you forever.”
“Samilius,” I reply, with dignity, “I don’t need Cicerius to protect me from you. As a Praetor you are about as much use as a eunuch in a brothel, besides which you are dumb as an Orc. Feel free to contact me any time. Now good day.”
Kemlath meets me outside the Abode of Justice. He’s hugging his cloak round him and notices that I’m not getting wet.
“Using one of your spells to keep dry?”
“I’m using my only spell to keep dry.”
“Your only spell? Aren’t you carrying a few others to help with your business? A couple of fighting spells and maybe something for reading hidden documents?”
I admit that I can’t really carry around more than one or two these days. “It’s taking all my powers just to keep dry. I don’t let on how little magic I can use. How do you think my aura got on the knife?”
Kemlath isn’t sure. He’s well aware that Old Hasius the Brilliant is not easy to fool. “But there are ways. I’ll apply myself and see what I can come up with. Meanwhile, you’d better tell me everything. It might give me some clues as to who is attacking you.”
I’m grateful to Kemlath. We did fight together, but that was a long time ago and he doesn’t owe me anything.
There are always plenty of landuses for hire in Thamlin,
unlike Twelve Seas. The drivers aren’t so keen to take you down there either.
“The nearest bar,” I instruct the driver. “And then the Royal Library.”
Kemlath is surprised. “Are you planning on some reading?”
“No, talking.”
The driver pulls up at an elegant hostelry at the edge of the sloping woodlands between the Palace grounds and Thamlin. The clientele here—senior Palace servants and officials, one or two Senators and their secretaries, even a Sorcerer or two—sit sipping wine in private alcoves. I march in, grab a waitress and instruct her to bring me their largest flagon of ale and to keep them coming till I tell her to stop.
“And food,” I add.
I used to come here to eat when I worked at the Palace. They had a good chef in those days, I hope he’s still in the kitchen.
The waitress hands me a menu.
“Bring me everything. And extra bread.”
“One way of faking an aura—” begins Kemlath.
I wave him quiet. “Too hungry. Wait.”
I down my tankard in one, start on the second and signal to the bartender to bring me another. The first courses start to arrive, bread and some fancy fish entrees. I can’t scoop up enough food using the small spoon provided, so I shovel it in with my fingers and the aid of the bread.
“More beer,” I tell the waitress before she leaves. “Quickly. And bring the next courses.”
She smiles. No doubt the staff appreciate a man with a healthy appetite. Inside the hostelry it is cool and pleasant. I haven’t been this comfortable for weeks. The waitress wheels up a cart carrying six main courses and a hefty selection of side dishes. She looks at me enquiringly.
“Just leave the cart,” I tell her. “And bring me another beer. Have you any bigger flagons?”
Kemlath looks on in some surprise as I demolish the contents of the food cart. He’s sipping a glass of wine and picking at a small plate of roast fowl.