by Martin Scott
Carilis has gone to ground and refuses to speak to me. She won’t tell me how she knew where the goods were. I think she’s scared.
I’ve no idea why Mursius was in the warehouse in the first place. No one reports any strange behaviour on his part and his personal attendant claims not to know what he did that day.
“The Senator gave me the day off,” he tells me. Very convenient for him, if not for me.
Guardsman Jevox tells me that the Civil Guard still thinks I’m the culprit. Even so, it’s carrying on with its investigations under pressure from Rittius and Samilius, trying to dig up more evidence to nail me. They haven’t turned up anything new. This gives The Renowned Chronicle something to whine about, though it spends most of its time complaining about the imminent arrival of the Orcish chariot. The city is still simmering. The True Church is particularly upset and its Pontifexes thunder against the notion from their pulpits. Even Archbishop Xerius, a strong supporter of the King, lets it be known in private that he’s not happy.
I do turn up one interesting fact. Drasius the banker wasn’t the only one to hear the rumour about the Society of Friends planning a major betting coup on the Turas Memorial. The story has certainly passed around town among the betting fraternity. This doesn’t prove anything—such rumours are common enough among Turai’s perpetually paranoid gamblers—but it’s interesting if only because Glixius Dragon Killer is a known associate of the Society. A man of his sorcerous power might be expected to be in on the plot. I’ve received two more sorcerous warnings, presumably from Glixius, so I’m interested in anything he does right now.
I wonder about the Turas Memorial. Even though Senator Mursius knew the Elves were entering, he advised me to back Storm the Citadel with everything I had. Why was he so confident? Could he possibly have been involved in the plot somehow? Might the Society of Friends have been planning to help Storm the Citadel win? I doubt it but I can’t absolutely dismiss it. Nor can I dismiss the other possibility, that Mursius just stumbled into the picture somehow and was murdered by the Society to keep him quiet. Nothing really points that way, however.
I sit downstairs with a flagon of ale in front of me.
Makri brings me another as she finishes her shift. She notices that my face fails to light up as the beer arrives.
“No progress?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I borrow the magic dry cloak for College tonight?”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“I’ve no use for it. I’ve investigated everything and found nothing. I’m just going to sit here drinking till Praetor Samilius comes and arrests me for the murder.”
“When will that be?”
“Probably right before Glixius kills me with a spell.”
“Come on, Thraxas,” says Makri. “There’s no point sitting round being as miserable as a Niojan whore about everything.”
“Fine,” I say. “You have cheered me immensely. I am now as happy as a drunken mercenary.”
“Don’t get angry with me,” says Makri.
Makri is easily annoyed these days. The constant downpour, the strain of her studies and the amount of shifts she has to work are getting to her. And she still hasn’t collected the sixty gurans she promised Minarixa. The race meeting in Juval ended without us finding another chariot worth backing. Makri asked Gurd for a loan, but Gurd’s trade has been poor and he’s also had the expense of fixing the roof, which sprang several leaks in one of last week’s storms. So he claims, anyway, though I suspect that Gurd may just be unwilling to lend out any money for the purposes of helping the Association of Gentlewomen. In the northern Barbarian lands where Gurd comes from, women have a lower social status than horses, and he finds it difficult to adapt to our more civilised ways.
Makri’s only hope of raising the sixty in time is at another race meet even further south in Simnia. She’s frustrated with the delay. In truth sixty gurans isn’t going to get the Association of Gentlewomen very far. They’ve run into problems with their attempt to have themselves recognised by the Revered Federation Council. They need money to pay a bribe to the Praetor in charge of Guild Affairs and they need it quickly else the whole process will be delayed for a year. The local group has been going round Twelve Seas with collection boxes and getting precious little reward for their troubles. Maybe the rich women up in Thamlin are doing better. Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, is a member, I believe. She’s a very powerful Sorcerer.
“Get Lisutaris to magic you some money,” I suggest to Makri.
“Could she do that?” asks Makri, eagerly.
“Of course not,” I reply, having a good laugh at Makri’s naivete.
Makri storms off annoyed. I never like to let a day pass without upsetting someone, as my ex-wife used to say. I gather up another beer and slump back in my chair.
Parax the shoemaker stumbles through the door.
“Goddamn it, I’m wet,” he says. “It’s the Orcs.”
Parax is a fool. It’s day twenty-two of the Hot Rainy Season. He knows as well as everyone else that there’s another eight days to go, Orcs or no Orcs. Gurd points this out to him.
“Well, it’s heavier than usual,” counters Parax, continuing to insist that we’re cursed. I wonder what he’d say if he knew that Rezaz the Butcher was here already.
I study the form for the chariots in the upcoming meeting in Simnia. Far south of Turai, it’s hot there. Too hot, really, but at least they don’t have a Hot Rainy Season. I wish I was there just now, far away from this damp, stinking, corrupt and crime-ridden city.
I turn the sheet of paper listing the chariots over to study the other side. Except on the other side there don’t seem to be any chariots. Just a message printed in red ink: Take care, Thraxas, you have little time left.
I slam it down in a fury. This has gone too far. Now I can’t even read the racing form without a sorcerous warning appearing and messing it up.
Kemlath Orc Slayer arrives later in the day and I show him the message.
“Can’t you pick up anything from it?”
So far Kemlath has been unable to say for sure where any of the sorcerous warnings have come from. He stares hard at the document for a long time.
“I think he’s getting careless,” says Kemlath, eventually. “I wouldn’t stake my reputation on it in a court of law, but I think this message has faint traces of Glixius Dragon Killer on it.”
I pound the table. “So! It is Glixius! He’s trying to scare me off the investigation.”
Kemlath, as ever, is wearing plenty of jewellery: gold chains, silver bracelets, and a distinctive antique ring on his finger with a fabulous blue stone in it. He buys me a beer and asks how the case is going. I tell him I’ve made little progress.
“I can’t seem to get a handle on it somehow. But I’m still hopeful more of Mursius’s art will turn up. If the cup did, there’s no reason why a few more pieces shouldn’t find their way on to the market. Once they do, it might give me an opening.”
“Do you think the same person that stole the works of art murdered Mursius?”
“Probably. Either that or they know who did.”
“You think it’s Glixius?”
I nod. “He’s never been convicted of anything. Thinks he’s safe with his sorcery and his aristocratic connections. Well, he’s wrong. If he killed Mursius, I’m going to nail him.”
“You were always a dogged soldier,” says Kemlath, which I take as a compliment, along with another beer.
Three days later, I’m beginning to wonder if Parax might have been right about us being cursed. The rain is heavier than anyone can ever remember. Usually there are periods where it stops, the sun shines and the city gets a chance to breathe. This year the downpour is relentless. Life in Twelve Seas becomes unbearable. Quintessence Street is a sea of mud and some of the small streets running off it are completely impassable. A few cheap tenements have crumbled to the ground, their foundations undermined. Everywhere you look so
meone is desperately trying to shore up a building, repair a roof or bail themselves out of trouble. Trade in the city slows to a crawl and the anger about the Orcs lies over Turai in a simmering cloud.
All the while the heat produces thunderstorms so terrifying that our more nervous citizens start looking up old prophesies, wondering if the end of the world might be nigh. Makri shakes her sword angrily at the sky while practising her fighting skills in the back yard in defiance of the elements.
I receive another warning. This time it’s magically etched into my own flagon, which I take as a very personal attack. I’m late with the rent but for once Gurd understands that there’s nothing much I can do about it. I’m not the only one finding it hard to earn a living these days. Street vendors, messengers, whores, wagon drivers—all give up the struggle with the elements and huddle indoors, waiting for it to pass.
“I’ve tramped over half this city looking for that damned prayer mat,” I tell Makri. “It’s one of the most frustrating cases I’ve ever come across.”
“What about Mursius’s murder?”
“That’s one of the most frustrating cases I’ve ever come across as well. Do you know—”
“Yes, fine,” interrupts Makri. “So, who are we betting on in the first race at Simnia?”
“Thank you for your support. Okay, the first race in Simnia. I reckon the second favourite in the first race is a reasonable bet.”
“Only a reasonable bet? I’m running out of excuses for Minarixa. Everyone was looking at me at last night’s meeting. Do you think they know I gambled the money away?”
“I doubt it. Who would suspect you, an escaped slave gladiator with Orcish blood in her veins, of acting with anything except impeccable honesty?”
We leave for Mox’s.
“You might lend me the magic dry cloak.”
“No. It’s mine. Who is it has to say a spell over it every day?”
I have my own reasons for needing a win at the races. I’m running severely short of money and soon won’t have enough for my daily supply of beer.
“I can’t function without beer.”
“Aren’t you the person who always ridicules these dwa addicts for wasting their lives on a stupid drug?”
“That’s not the same thing at all,” I inform my smart young companion. “Beer is a normal healthy part of any man’s diet, particularly a vigorous man like myself. It’s part of our culture and heritage. Dwa is for degenerates. Let’s go.”
We walk out into the swamp that used to be Quintessence Street. A gale is blowing the storm in from the sea. The rain lashes into my face and the lightning splits the sky above. I grit my teeth and struggle on. Mox’s is close to the harbour, right next to Prisox’s pawn shop, another establishment with which I am very familiar. Despite the adverse weather, it will be business as usual there. Prisox always has a healthy supply of sad customers trying to raise a little cash for life’s necessities.
Makri, after her initial inclination to splash out on wild bets on chariots with long odds, has settled into a careful strategy and is content to go along with my suggestion of a modest gamble on Bear Baiter. She bets fifteen of her thirty-five gurans. As Bear Baiter is quoted at evens, she stands to win fifteen gurans, which will bring her close to her target. I bet a similar amount.
As we leave we run into a throng of people. The crowd seems quite cheerful, or as cheerful as it’s possible to be when lightning is searing the rooftops and wind and rain are pinning you to the walls.
“What’s happening?” I yell to the nearest passer-by.
“Elves are coming in,” he roars back, above the din.
Of course. The Elvish chariot is due to land at the docks today. Everyone is heading for the harbour. I can’t miss this. Like any true gambler I want to see the Elvish chariot and horses in order to form some opinions of their chances in the race. And it’s not just gambling that brings people here. Everyone likes Elves and Lord Lisith-ar-Moh is still a hero in Turai.
At the harbour crowds of people are straining their eyes for the first sight of the Elvish ship, and a podium has been set up for welcoming speeches. No one seems worried that the Elves might not arrive on schedule. They’re renowned for their sailing skills, and have probably used sorcery to calm the waters on the way. Sure enough, a cry goes up that there’s a sail on the horizon. A pleasant ripple of anticipation runs through the crowd. Everyone forgets their rain-soaked misery as the green sails gradually grow in size as the Elvish ship approaches the harbour.
Cheers go up as the Elves take down the sails and manoeuvre into the harbour. A bigger cheer goes up when Lord Lisith-ar-Moh himself is spotted on deck. He has a silver band around his brow, and his green cloak flaps in the wind. Around him are various attendants, all tall and fair. As the ship draws into the pier Elvish sailors wave to the crowd.
Elves are always tall, fair and golden-eyed. They generally wear green. Their ears are slightly pointed at the top. It’s never difficult to recognise an Elf. It cheers me to see them. It cheers me further to think that if the Orcish chariot is given any chance by the bookmakers, the odds on the Elves might just stretch out far enough to be worth a bet.
Consul Kalius, Turai’s most important official, is here to welcome the Elves on behalf of the King. He’s standing on a podium with an attendant holding an umbrella over his head, but with the storm still raging he cuts his speech short, simply welcoming the Elves to the city, thanking them for their help in the past, wishing them good luck in the race, then departing with Lord Lisith in a convoy of official carriages. The crowd applaud, and crane their necks to see the chariot being unloaded. The horses snort apprehensively as they are lowered in harnesses from the ship to the pier, but their Elvish grooms call to them, calming them down, before leading them off to the shelter of a nearby warehouse. I note with interest that this is the same warehouse in which Senator Mursius was murdered.
Do the Elves who have just arrived know they’re going to be up against an Orc? I wonder. I follow as young Elves wheel their chariot into the warehouse. They’re lithe and strong and show no ill effects from their long voyage through rough seas from the Southern Islands to Turai.
Makri has remained silent throughout all this activity. When it comes to Elves she has mixed emotions. She’s always attracted to Elves, partly because she is quarter Elf herself and partly because she thinks that the men in Turai are such scum. On the other hand, Elves annoy the hell out of her because they always react badly to her quarter-Orc blood.
The chariot is loaded safely into the warehouse. I’m right up at the doors, peering in past the attendants. I slip past an Elf distracted by the sight of Makri and poke my head in the door. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence that the Elf chariot is being stored in the same place that Mursius was murdered.
Civil Guards are in attendance to keep order and to prevent anyone from touching the chariot. One of them spots me, and calls to me to get out.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing,” I grunt, though this is not quite true. In reality I’m staring at the wall of the warehouse where I’ve just noticed, scratched in tiny letters close to the floor, a pair of clasped hands, very crudely drawn. Just a piece of graffiti, a common enough sight in the city.
But not that particular sign, I muse, as the Guards eject me and the rest of the overly curious crowd. Two clasped hands is the sign of the Society of Friends, who don’t hang around in Twelve Seas, which is controlled by the Brotherhood, their deadly enemies. Any known Society man wandering around in Twelve Seas would soon end up dead. But who else other than a Society of Friends man would make such a mark? With the Brotherhood being so powerful in the south of the city, it’s not the sort of thing that even a bored youth would do. Scrawling Society of Friends graffiti is liable to earn you a good beating, or worse.
Outside Makri is talking to a young Elf in Elvish. The heavy rain has flattened her hair so her pointed ears show through. The Elf looks intrigued but trou
bled. Soon an Elf commander calls to him and he hurries away.
I tell Makri about the Society of Friends graffiti. Has the Society been in the warehouse in which Mursius was murdered? The same place in which the Elvish horses and chariot are now being stored prior to removal to the stables at the Stadium?
“Are you coming home, or do you want to hang around waiting for more Elves to appear?”
“Stupid Elves,” says Makri, walking rapidly away. The crowd make optimistic noises about the Orc curse being lifted now that Lord Lisith has arrived. I catch up with Makri. She’s in a bad mood after meeting the Elves. Poor Makri. They’re never going to welcome her like a long-lost sister.
At the end of Quintessence Street I sense magic close by and spin around in case I’m under attack. Right behind me a tall man in a grey cloak is approaching through the rain. His face looks down towards the ground but I recognise him anyway. It’s Glixius Dragon Killer. I grab him as he passes, which is rash, given Glixius’s power, but I’m still annoyed at the damage to my own personal tankard. He looks up in surprise.
“Leave your rainbow cloak at home, did you?”
“Thraxas! How dare you lay a hand on me. Do you wish to be blasted into the next world?”
“How dare you send me sorcerous warnings!” I counter. “That tankard was very dear to me. And I don’t appreciate you writing all over my racing form either.”
“Have you gone insane?” roars the Sorcerer. “I have no time for your petty stupidities. Be gone!”