by Martin Scott
“Damn it, no one was saying I had a bad character last winter when I saved this city from disgrace. Not to mention helping Lisutaris get elected as head of the Sorcerers Guild. Then it was ‘Thank you, Thraxas, you’re a hero’.”
“Well, no one actually said that,” points out Makri.
“They should have.”
“Actually, I seem to remember several Sorcerers saying you should be thrown in prison. And the Deputy Consul was very angry about you turning up drunk on the last day of the Sorcerers Assemblage. And then the Consul threatened—”
“Yes, fine, Makri. You don’t need to remind me of every detail of this city’s ingratitude. If there was any justice I’d be lounging by a pool in the Palace instead of trudging back to a tavern in the bad part of town.”
We walk on through the intolerable heat. Packs of dogs lie listlessly on the baked mud roads and beggars slump in despair at every corner. Welcome to Twelve Seas, home to those city dwellers whose lives have not been going too well. Sailors without a ship, labourers without work, mercenaries without a war, broken-down prostitutes, pimps, thugs, runaways and the rest of the city’s underclass all struggling to survive, and no one struggling more than sorcerous Investigator Thraxas—ex-Palace employee, ex-soldier, ex-mercenary, currently broke, ageing, overweight, without prospects and really, really in need of a beer.
“I’m sure that everyone at Guild College doesn’t have to give a talk to the class,” continues Makri, apparently unaware that I have no interest in her problems. “Professor Toarius is making me do it because he hates me. He just can’t stand that I’m a woman. And he can’t stand that I’ve got Orcish blood. Ever since I signed up at the college he’s had it in for me. ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that.’ Petty restrictions everywhere. ‘You can’t wear your sword to rhetoric class.’ ‘Don’t threaten your philosophy tutor with an axe.’ I tell you, Thraxas, life for me is tough.”
“Very tough, Makri. Now please shut up about your damned examination.”
It’s a long way down Moon and Stars Boulevard from the centre of the city to Twelve Seas. By the time we reach the corner of Quintessence Street I’m sweating like a pig. I’d buy a watermelon from the market if I hadn’t lost every guran I had on an unwise investment on a chariot which might possibly have won the race had it not been driven by an Orc-loving charioteer with two left hands and a poor sense of direction.
Down each narrow alleyway youths are dealing dwa, the powerful drug that has the city in its grip. The Civil Guard, bribed or intimidated by the Brotherhood, look the other way. Their customers eye us as we pass, wondering if we might be potential targets for a swift street robbery, but at the sight of the swords at Makri’s hips, and my considerable bulk, they look away. No need to tangle with us when there are plenty of easier targets to be found.
The sun beats down cruelly. The crowds around the market stalls kick up clouds of choking dust. By the time we reach the Avenging Axe I’m practically begging for ale. I march through the doors, force my way through the afternoon drinkers and reach for the bar like a drowning man clutching at a rope.
“Beer. Quickly.”
The tavern is owned by Gurd, Barbarian from the north, a man I’ve fought beside all over the world. Recognising the poor state I’m in, he omits the small talk and fills me up a tankard. I down it in one and take another.
“Bad day in court?”
“Very bad. They let Baxin go. So now I’m missing out on the conviction bonus. And you wouldn’t believe what the lawyers said about me. I tell you, Gurd, I’ve about had it with this stinking city. A man can’t do an honest day’s work without some corrupt court official grinding him into the dust.”
My tankard is empty.
“What’s the matter? Beer in short supply?”
Gurd hands over a third. He grins. Gurd’s around fifty, and after a life of mercenary wars he’s content to settle down peacefully in his tavern. Once a ferocious fighter, he’s now a rather mellower person than me. Of course, Gurd had the good sense to save enough money to buy an inn. Everything I ever earned I gambled away, or drank.
By my fourth or fifth beer I’m complaining loudly to all who care to listen that Turai is undoubtedly the worst city in the west.
“I tell you, I’ve been in Orcish hovels that were more civilised than this place. The next time the city authorities need me to bail them out of a crisis they can forget it. Let them look somewhere else.”
The beer doesn’t lighten my mood. Even a substantial helping of Tanrose’s stew can’t cheer me up. As the tavern starts to fill up with dock workers coming off their afternoon shift at the warehouses, I grab another beer and head upstairs. I used to be a Senior Investigator at the Palace with a nice villa in Thamlin. Now I live in two rooms above a tavern. It doesn’t make me feel good about my life. Makri lives in another room along the corridor. I bump into her as she emerges. She’s changed into her chainmail bikini in readiness for her shift as a waitress.
“Cheered up any?” she asks.
“No.”
“Strange. Eight or nine beers usually does it. What’s eating you? You’ve been criticised in court before. Now I think about it, weren’t you criticised in the Senate only last year?”
“Yes. I’ve been lambasted by the best of them. Do you realise that I’m in exactly the same position I was when you arrived in this city a couple of years ago?”
“Drunk?”
“No. I mean broke. Without a coin to my name. Dependent on Gurd for ale on credit till some degenerate walks through my door asking me to investigate some case which will no doubt involve me risking my life for a lousy thirty gurans a day. It’s not right. Look what I’ve done for this city. Fought in the wars, held back the Niojans and repelled the Orcish hordes. Did anyone pin a medal on me for that? Forget it. And who was it saved our necks when Horm the Dead tried to wipe out Turai with his Eight-Mile Terror Spell? Me. Only this winter I got a Turanian elected head of the Sorcerers Guild practically single-handed.”
“I helped with that.”
“A little. Which doesn’t alter the fact that I deserve a lot more than being stuck in this foul tavern. I ought to be employed by the Palace.”
“You were employed by the Palace. They bounced you out for being drunk.”
“That only goes to prove my point. There’s no gratitude. I tell you, if that useless Deputy Consul Cicerius comes down here again begging for help I’m sending him away with a dragon’s tooth up his nose. To hell with them all.”
“It’s not fair,” says Makri.
“You’re damn right it’s not fair.”
“I don’t see why I have to take this examination. I’m so busy waiting tables I hardly have time to study.”
I glare at Makri with loathing. As far as I can see, if a person who’s part Elf, part Orc and part Human decides to slaughter her captors, escape to civilisation, then sign up for college, she’s only got herself to blame for her problems. She could have remained a gladiator. Makri was good at that. Undefeated champion. She’s just about the most savage fighter ever seen in the west, and slaughtering people is her speciality. But Guild College is a foolish enterprise requiring long hours of study in rhetoric, philosophy, mathematics and God knows what else. No wonder she’s stressed. The woman—and I use the term loosely—is next door to insane at the best of times; a result, I imagine, of having mixed blood, pointy ears and a general tendency to believe that all of life’s difficulties can be solved with violence.
Makri departs downstairs. I take my beer to my room, slam the door, and clear some junk off the couch. I’ve had enough of this. Poverty is getting me down. I need a plan. There must be a way for a talented man to get ahead in this city. I finish my beer. After a while I drag a bottle of klee out of a drawer and start in on it. The klee burns my throat as it goes down. Finest quality, distilled in the hills. The sun streams in, through the holes in the curtains. My room is hotter than Orcish hell. No one can think in heat like this. I guess I’m ju
st going to finish my days in Twelve Seas broke, angry and unlamented. I finish the klee, toss the bottle in the bin, and fall asleep.
Chapter Two
I’m dreaming about the time I won a beer-drinking contest down in Abelesi. Seven opponents, and every one of them unconscious on the floor while I was still demanding more ale, and quickly. One of my finest moments. I’m rudely awakened by someone shaking my arm. I leap to my feet and make a grab for my sword.
“It’s me,” says Makri.
I’m angry at the invasion.
“How often do I have to tell you to stay out of my room!” I yell at her. “I swear if you walk in here uninvited again I’ll run you through.”
“You couldn’t run me through if I had both arms tied behind my back, you fat ox,” retorts Makri, never one to smooth over a disagreement.
“One of these days I’m going to break you in half, you skinny troll-lover.”
I notice that Makri is not alone.
“You remember Dandelion?”
My heart sinks. It plummets. Even in a city full of strange characters, Dandelion stands out as a particularly odd young woman. She hired me on a case last year, and while I admit this worked out all right in the end, the whole affair didn’t endear her to me. Dandelion is weird. Not barbaric like Makri or ethereal like the Elves. Just weird. Not least among the things I dislike about her is her habit of walking around with bare feet, something I’m utterly unable to account for. In a city full of refuse-strewn streets, it defies common sense. You’re liable to step on a dead rat, or maybe worse. Besides this she wears a long skirt covered with patterns from the zodiac, and spouts rubbish about communing with nature. She hired me on behalf of the talking dolphins in the bay, which was probably to be expected.
“What do you want?” I grunt. “The talking dolphins having problems again?”
The dolphins don’t actually speak Turanian. Just a lot of strange whistles. I saw Dandelion communicating with them but I’m half convinced she was making it up as she went along.
Dandelion tries to smile, but she seems nervous. With my sword in my hand I guess I don’t put people at ease. I sheathe it, just in case the woman has anything useful to say. Now I think about it, she did pay me with several valuable antique coins, and I’m not in a position to turn away paying clients no matter how peculiar they might be.
“Dandelion has a warning for you,” says Makri.
Makri’s keeping a straight face but I sense she’s secretly amused. Springing Dandelion on me when I’m sleeping off ten beers is probably her idea of an excellent joke.
“A warning? From the dolphins?”
Dandelion shakes her head.
“Not from the dolphins. Though they’re still very grateful for your assistance. You should visit them some time.”
“Next time I need to commune with nature I’ll get right down to the beach. What’s the warning?”
“You’re about to be involved in terrible bloodshed.”
Dandelion gazes at me. I gaze back at her. There’s a brief silence, interrupted only by the cries of the hawkers outside. At the foot of the steps leading down from my outer door to the street there’s an ongoing dispute over territory between a woman who sells fish and a man who’s set up a stall for sharpening blades. They’ve been screaming at each other all week. Life in Twelve Seas is never peaceful.
“Terrible bloodshed? Is that it?”
Dandelion nods. I hunt around for my klee. It’s finished.
“I’m an Investigator. I’m always surrounded by bloodshed. Comes with the territory. People round here just don’t like being investigated.”
“You don’t understand,” says Dandelion. “I don’t mean a little violence. Or even a few deaths. I mean many, many deaths, more deaths than you can count. An orgy of blood-letting such as you’ve never encountered before.”
My head’s starting to hurt. The sight of Dandelion with her bare feet and odd clothes is irritating beyond measure. I’d like to bounce her down the stairs.
“Who gave you this warning? The Brotherhood? The Society of Friends?”
“No one gave it me. I read it in the stars.”
Makri fails to suppress a giggle. I stare at both of them with loathing.
“You read it in the stars?”
“Yes,” says Dandelion, nodding eagerly. “Last night on the beach. I hurried here as fast as I could to warn you. Because I owe you—”
“Will you get out of my office!” I roar. “Makri, how dare you bring this freak in here to bother me like this. If she’s still here in five seconds I swear I’ll kill you both. Don’t you know I’m a busy man? Now get the hell out of here!”
Makri shepherds Dandelion from the room. She pauses at the door.
“Maybe you ought to listen to her, Thraxas. After all, she came up with the goods during the dolphin case.”
I tell Makri brusquely I’ll be grateful if she never wastes my time again, and add a few curses I usually save for the race track. Makri departs, slamming the door. I open it to curse her again, then sit down heavily. My mood just got a lot worse. I need more sleep. There’s a knock on the outside door. I ignore it. It comes again. I continue to ignore it. My outside door is secured by a minor locking spell which is sufficient for keeping out most people, and I’m not in the mood for company. I lie down on my couch just as the door flies open and Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, strides into the room. Lisutaris, number one Sorcerer in Turai. Number one Sorcerer in all the Human lands, in fact, since she was elected head of the Sorcerers Guild. She glares down at me.
“Why didn’t you answer the door?”
“I was counting on the locking spell to keep out unwanted intruders.”
Lisutaris smiles. A locking spell placed by the likes of me is never going to be a problem for such a powerful Sorcerer.
“Are you planning on lying there all day?”
I struggle to rise. Lisutaris is an important woman, and wealthy. She deserves respect, though as I’ve frequently seen her in a state of collapse due to overindulgence in the narcotic thazis, I don’t feel the need to be too formal.
“Do you always greet your clients this way?”
“Only when I’m trying to sleep off the effect of beer. Is this a social call? And incidentally, why are you in disguise?”
“It’s a professional call. I’m here to hire you. And I’m in disguise because I don’t want anyone to recognise me.”
Turai’s Sorcerers wear a distinctive rainbow cloak, and as Lisutaris is an aristocratic woman, she’d normally have a fine gown under her cloak, along with jewellery, gold sandals and the like. Instead she’s dressed in the plain garb of the lower classes, though any observer could tell that her extravagant hair wasn’t coiffured at one of the cheap establishments you’d find in Twelve Seas. Even in a plain robe, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, is a striking woman. She’s somewhere around the same age as me, but she’s always been an elegant beauty, and careful with her looks.
“I see nothing’s changed around here,” she says, sweeping some junk off a chair and sitting down lightly. “Is it absolutely necessary for you to live in such squalor?”
“Private investigation never pays that well.”
“You were well remunerated for your help at the Sorcerers Assemblage, I believe.”
“Not as well remunerated as I should have been. And some recent investments have turned out less well than I anticipated.”
“You mean you lost it all at the chariot races?”
“That’s right.”
Lisutaris nods.
“I too lost money at the last meeting. Of course, I can afford it. Well, Thraxas, as you’re obviously in need of money, I expect you’ll be glad to take on the case.”
“Tell me about it.”
There’s a slight delay while Lisutaris lights a thazis stick. She offers me one, which I accept. Thazis is a mild narcotic for most people, but Lisutaris is a very heavy user. She invented a new kind of water pipe and develop
ed a spell for making the plants grow faster. The citizens of Turai are proud that one of our own was recently selected as head of the Sorcerers Guild, but they might be surprised if they knew the full extent of Lisutaris’s habit. Generally she’s too stoned to walk by the end of the day. She was never that suitable a candidate for head of the Sorcerers Guild really, but there wasn’t a better one available, much to the chagrin of Deputy Consul Cicerius. Suitable or not, it was a relief for the Deputy Consul, the Consul and the King to have a Turanian elected. It guarantees us help from all the Sorcerers in the west should we come under attack from the Orcs again, which we will, sooner or later.
“Have you heard of the Sorcerer’s green jewel?”
I shake my head.
“I never made it past apprentice. My sorcerous knowledge has a lot of gaps.”
“Not many people have heard of it,” continues Lisutaris. “It’s what you might call a state secret. Even I was unaware of its existence till I became privy to government secrets after my election as head of the Guild. The green jewel is Turai’s guarantee against unexpected invasion. In the hands of a powerful Sorcerer, the jewel acts as an all-seeing eye. No matter how private the Orcs might try to keep their affairs, we will always be able to tell when they’re massing armies against us. So it’s an important piece of rock.”
I’m surprised to learn of this artefact, and a little puzzled by Lisutaris’s explanation.
“It sounds like a handy thing to have. But what do you mean, it’s our only defence against unexpected invasion? The Sorcerers Guild has plenty of spells for giving us advance warning.”