by Martin Scott
Copro claps his hands. The statue behind him opens its eyes, and steps forward. It raises its four arms, each one carrying a sword. I raise my own weapons to defend myself. Makri does the same. The statue advances a few steps then topples over with a terrific crash and lies motionless on the ground. Makri looks puzzled.
“Is that it?”
Copro is furious.
“Don’t feel bad,” I tell him. “Animating a statue is a really difficult thing to do.”
Copro claps his hands again and tigers appear from nowhere, rending at us with their claws. Makri starts fighting but I remain calm. I know these are illusions. I walk straight through a tiger and they all vanish. Immediately serpents slither down the walls and slide towards us. I feel them twining round my legs as I walk forward. It takes all my concentration to keep going. Illusionary or not, I hate to be covered with snakes. Dragonfire erupts from the walls, covering me in golden light, and a nameless demon jabs at my eyes with a spear. I ignore it all and keep walking. Finally I back Copro up against the far wall. The illusions fade away.
“You have a stronger will than one would suspect,” says Copro.
“Cheap illusions never bother me.”
“Speak for yourself,” says Makri. “Those snakes were really disgusting.”
“The Sword of Aracasan is no illusion,” says Copro, suddenly pulling a short blade from beneath his tunic.
I stare at the blade, rather worried by this turn of events. The Sword of Aracasan, a fabulous item long thought lost to the world, has the property of making its bearer invincible in combat. Armed with such a blade, a novice could hew his way through an army.
“That’s not really the sword of—”
Copro swings it at me. The blade travels faster than the eye can see, and were I not already protecting myself with my sword it would have taken my head off. As it is, the flat of my own blade slams into my face and I fly back across the room and bang my head on the four-armed statue. I try to rise but my legs no longer seem to be functioning. Copro smiles. The sword flickers in the air, again faster than the eye can see.
“A remarkable weapon,” he says, and advances towards me. He isn’t paying much attention to Makri. Possibly Copro doesn’t feel threatened by any woman whose hair he’s styled. Makri leaps at him and engages him in combat, but even her gladiatorial skills can’t overcome the Sword of Aracasan. They fight furiously for a minute or so, but each time Makri attempts to land a blow the magical sword parries it, and she’s hard pushed to avoid the answering strokes. Finally she leaps backwards and yells.
“Get him, Thraxas!”
Copro turns towards me. Makri stabs him in the back. He slumps to the floor with a surprised look in his eye.
I struggle to my feet. Makri is looking sadly at the body.
“You should’ve stuck to the beauty trade. You were good at it.”
She sighs.
“Lisutaris isn’t going to be pleased.”
She looks more cheerful.
“On the other hand, I suppose this ends the case? I mean, we’ve killed the bad guy. That usually does it.”
“We’ve killed one bad guy. Covinius is still around and we don’t have any proof it was he and not Lisutaris who killed Ramius.”
I’m bleeding. I rip a length of cloth from a towel and wrap it round my head. The villa is in chaos, with servants running around and screaming.
“Furthermore, I don’t have any proof that Copro killed Darius. He confessed to us, but who’s going to believe it?”
“When Samilius and the Sorcerers come down to investigate, won’t they find things? You know, auras and such like?”
“Maybe. Quite probably Old Hasius and Lasat might find enough here to link Copro to the Avenging Axe and the death of Darius. There’s still the matter of this remaking spell, though. If I knew how that was done, life would be easy.”
“Let’s take the sword,” suggests Makri.
I reach down, but before I can grasp the hilt it vanishes.
“I guess we weren’t worthy.”
I tell the servants that the head of the Civil Guard will be here soon to take care of the crime scene and if they touch anything they’ll all be in big trouble. Having no more time to waste, we depart into the cold and make our way back to the Assemblage.
“Do you have any thazis?” asks Makri.
“You need to calm down?”
“No, I just want some.”
We light some sticks as we ride back to the Royal Hall.
“Lisutaris has better thazis,” says Makri.
“Is she planning on cutting down when she’s Chief Sorcerer?”
Makri doesn’t think so.
“She did say she might be able to get some excellent plants imported from the south once she had better contacts in the Guild.”
“You’re far too keen on thazis these days, Makri. And dwa. You used to be a pain in the butt when you were studying and working all the time, but at least you got things done. What happened to you?”
“I got sad about See-ath,” she says.
“Any chance of cheering up?”
“I’m feeling a bit better after the fight.”
Chapter Twenty
Though the main room at the Royal Hall is crowded with Sorcerers awaiting the confirmation, there is little sign of celebration. Fatigue has set in, and dismay at the death of Sunstorm Ramius has sobered them up. Losing one Sorcerer was bad enough, but the death of a second makes this the most unfortunate Assemblage since the infamous episode in Samsarina twenty years ago when three drunken apprentices burned down a tavern in a dispute over a game of cards, killing themselves in the process.
They huddle in their delegations, discussing the various rumours that circulate through the building. As Lisutaris is about to become the new head of the Guild, few Sorcerers want to come right out and accuse her of killing Sunstorm Ramius. That might be a very bad career move. But there are plenty of whispered comments, and much talk about foul tactics by the Turanians.
My report to Cicerius and Direeva is brief and to the point.
“Copro the beautician turned out to be Rosin-kar, onetime apprentice to Darius Cloud Walker and now secretly transformed into a powerful Sorcerer. He’s dead in his villa. If Praetor Samilius gets some of his people down there quickly enough they can probably find evidence linking him to the murder of Darius. As for Ramius, I’m nowhere, and since his body was hauled out of the magic space the Sorcerers are starting to talk. I still think that Covinius was the most probable killer, but I don’t have any proof.”
“We have proof,” says Cicerius.
I’m stunned.
“What do you mean, you have proof?”
“A witness saw Covinius emerge from the magic space.”
“What witness?”
“A man called Direxan, who’s here with the Matteshan delegation. Not a Sorcerer, he’s a Matteshan Tribune.”
I don’t understand this at all. Cicerius explains that Direxan was minding his own business outside the Royal Hall when a green portal of light suddenly opened and the notorious Covinius appeared. He dropped a knife, and disappeared into the snow. The knife had a fragment of cloth on it, which has been matched with Ramius’s cloak.
“Is this true?” I demand.
“Absolutely. Direxan has already made a sworn statement in front of Kalius and Lasat, Axe of Gold. It will shortly be announced to the Assemblage that the notorious Assassin Covinius was the killer of Sunstorm Ramius. Lisutaris is in the clear.”
“But how did this Direxan identify Covinius? No one knows what he looks like.”
“Direxan does. He was present three years ago when Covinius assassinated his superior, the Deputy Consul of Mattesh.”
“It’s extremely fortunate that such a good witness was available,” adds Tilupasis.
“More than fortunate,” I say.
“Presumably it was an internal affair involving Simnian politics,” says Cicerius. “It was my opinion all along,
you will recall, that we did not have to worry about Covinius. Our concern is Lisutaris, who is now close to triumph. Have we enough evidence to now clear her name with regard to Darius?”
“No.”
“Why did you kill Copro before gaining such evidence?”
“He attacked me with a vicious magical sword.”
“You must find evidence. The confirmation is in one hour.”
Two apprentices knock and enter, with Charius the Wise in their wake. He regards Cicerius and Tilupasis with cold anger and struggles to control his manners.
“Are you still planning to have Lisutaris put forward as head of the Guild?”
“Certainly,“ says Cicerius, in his friendliest manner. “After all, she won the test.”
Charius’s long moustache sways slightly as he draws himself to his full height to stare down at the Deputy Consul.
“I am well aware of the tactics employed by Turai to gain this post. In my twenty years as master of the final test, I have never witnessed such a shameless display of illegal behaviour by any nation. You have used every underhand means at your disposal to unfairly influence the outcome of the election.”
Cicerius and Tilupasis, being politicians, are taking this calmly enough, but I can’t resist butting in. After all, it was me that had to struggle round the magic space in a snowstorm.
“Come on, Charius. Are you trying to say that other nations weren’t doing exactly the same? And as for that final test, whose novel idea was it to set some mathematical problem? Lisutaris could have beaten Ramius in any test of sorcery. Smart idea, setting a problem she couldn’t do, then sending in a Simnian mathematician. Whoever thought that up was sharp as an Elf’s ear.”
Charius looks like he’d like to say a lot more on the subject of Turai’s infamous behaviour.
“You went too far with murder, Deputy Consul. You may have cleared Lisutaris of the death of Ramius—though I am not the only one with doubts about the veracity of your witness—but she still stands accused of killing Darius Cloud Walker. I will not allow her to be confirmed. Unless she immediately withdraws I will expose her to the Assemblage. The pictures of her stabbing Darius will be made available to all.”
“It’s a fake reality,” I say.
“There is no spell for faking such a reality,” retorts Charius the Wise, then sweeps out, his dark rainbow cloak trailing behind him.
“If there was, you wouldn’t tell me about it,” I mutter.
Kalius walks in briskly, his scribe and assistant behind him.
“Is Lisutaris ready to leave?”
“She is being prepared,” replies Cicerius. “Though we are still hoping to avoid that eventuality.”
Once again I’m obliged to muscle into the conversation.
“Leave? Leave for where?”
“Lisutaris must go into exile immediately,” says the Consul. “There is no other option. Once Charius denounces her to the Sorcerers Assemblage there is no telling what may happen.”
“At least this way she may yet become head of the Guild,” adds Cicerius. “If we can find evidence to clear her, she may be able to return some time in the future.”
Poor woman. She loses her favourite hairdresser then gets sent into exile, all in the same day. I curse myself. I’ve failed my client. No one rushes to reassure me that I did my best. When you fail a client, you just fail.
“Can’t you buy us any more time?”
They can’t. Even Tilupasis has come to the end of her resources. Time has now run out. We’ve failed. Damn it.
In the Room of Saints, Makri is sitting on her own in a corner. She’s heard the news.
“It’s not fair. She didn’t kill Darius.”
“I know.”
Makri wonders if Lisutaris gets to be head of the Guild.
“I think that’s a moot point. She won’t be confirmed in the post. But I don’t think the Sorcerers’ rules allow them to elect anyone else till she’s dead.”
“From what I’ve seen of Sorcerers’ politics, that might not be too long,” says Makri.
It’s true. If Turai’s enemies in the Guild decide that they want a clear run at electing a new leader, Lisutaris will be vulnerable to attack in exile. We fall silent. There’s around thirty minutes to the confirmation, an event which is not now going to happen. Sorcerers drift in and out. From their ugly mood I’d say that Charius was already showing the pictures of Lisutaris wielding the knife. I drink a beer, and another, and another.
“I like Lisutaris,” says Makri, bleakly.
I drink more beer. It’s been a strange couple of weeks. Started off looking for a dragon-scale thief and finished off in the Maze of Aero. In between there was a lot of drinking and two murdered Sorcerers. Most of the time I’ve been cold as the ice queen’s grave and at the end of it I’ve accomplished nothing. I should stick to simple cases, like tailing ex-actresses for their suspicious husbands. I wonder how that couple are getting on now. Strange that I first encountered Copro giving the wife beauty treatment when he called at her house.
“Very strange really,” I say out loud.
Makri looks up from her beer.
“What’s strange?”
“Copro. Visiting that actress. The one I was watching. He was giving her beauty treatment.”
“So?”
“So Copro was booked up with Senators’ wives, Princesses, Lisutaris and her like. Why did he visit a merchant’s wife? They were rich, but his other clients were richer. You might have thought it beneath him to take on the wife of a merchant as a client.”
Dragon scales went through that house. It was on the list. I presumed they were for purposes of decoration. Maybe there was more to it. I haul myself to my feet and shake my head to clear it.
“Makri. Go outside and find some fast horses. Steal them if necessary.”
I hurry into the main hall and burst into Cicerius’s private room. I need documents and I need them fast. Minutes later I’m running through the hall and out into the entrance, where Almalas is still lecturing apprentices on the right way for a Sorcerer to conduct himself. Makri has two horses ready. Their owners aren’t happy about it but Makri holds them off with the point of her sword.
“Official government business,” I cry. “You will be fully compensated.”
I leap into the saddle and we set off through the driving snow.
Chapter Twenty-One
I arrive back at the Assemblage with a very tired horse and an unwilling companion. There I find that Lisutaris is refusing to leave the city.
“Why should I? I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Even if you didn’t, Charius can prove that you did. The authorities will have no choice but to put you on trial if you stay.”
“What do you mean, authorities?” demands Lisutaris, facing right up to the Consul. “You’re the authorities. And I’m head of the Sorcerers Guild. No one is running me out of Turai.”
I’ve arrived back at the Assemblage with Habali, wife of Rixad, the woman I spent so much uncomfortable time watching in the freezing cold. Though I have important news I’m having trouble getting a word in. Faced with an uncomfortable exile, Lisutaris is mad as a mad dragon.
“You expect me to just set off through the winter and find a new place to live?”
“We will provide you with funds,” says Cicerius.
“And work towards your eventual recall,” adds Kalius.
“It’s for the good of the city,” says Tilupasis. “And your own. No one benefits if the Sorcerers Guild produces their pictures and demands you stand trial.”
“I’m getting sick of those pictures,” says Lisutaris, her voice rising. “How about if I just blast anyone that tries to show them again? If anyone tries to chase me out of Turai I’ll be down on them like a bad spell and that’s that.”
Hardly rational, but Lisutaris is angrier than I’ve ever seen her. She should take up thazis. Might calm her down.
“If I could make a suggestion,” I say, barging m
y way forward through the assorted assistants and guards who ring the room. Since I became Tribune, it’s proved a lot easier to get places. A few weeks ago I’d have been about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding at a meeting of the Consul, Deputy Consul and head of the Civil Guard. Now they’re almost pleased to see me, even though I’m aware I smell of beer. I wouldn’t normally notice, but it clashes with Lisutaris’s perfume.
Beside me Habali is nervous. When I persuaded—or threatened—her to accompany me, she wasn’t expecting to have to face a roomful of arguing politicians. Before I can speak further the room starts filling up with Sorcerers.
“Didn’t I say there were to be no interruptions?” snaps Cicerius.
“I insisted,” retorts Charius the Wise. Filing in behind him is a large delegation. He’s brought the Chief Sorcerer from each country with him. Even Princess Direeva is here, her shoulder heavily bandaged.
“It’s time,” says Charius.
Cicerius looks helplessly at Kalius. Kalius looks helplessly at Tilupasis.
“We require a little longer,” says Tilupasis. She’s still unruffled, but it’s a hopeless task. Charius isn’t going to wait any longer. Beside Charius, Lasat, Axe of Gold, is looking on with grim satisfaction. He may have been blackmailed into silence but he’s not going to be sorry to see the Turanian disgraced.
“It’s time—” repeats Charius.
“—for some explanations,” I say, using my weight to break through the throng.
“Explanations?”
“About the remaking of reality.”
A general groan issues from the Sorcerers present, all of whom know of my fruitless search for such a spell. I must have approached every delegation, and everyone has told me to forget it.
“I take it you’ve all now seen the pictures of Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, killing Darius Cloud Walker. And you’ve probably all heard my theory that someone erased what really happened. And just about all of you have told me there’s no way a Sorcerer could make some phony pictures to replace it—”