by Martin Scott
“True. But the Orcish Sorcerers Guild has spent the last fifteen years in a concentrated attempt to negate every one of them. There used to be twenty or more far-seeing spells we could use. Government intelligence now indicates that this is down to two or three. The Orcs have successfully developed counter-spells to the rest. The Orcish Sorcerers Guild is a far more cohesive unit than most things in the east. Even when their states have been riven by internal wars, they’ve kept working away on the problem. If they come up with counter-spells to our few remaining incantations for tracking their movements, the green jewel will be the only thing standing between the west and oblivion.”
This talk of Orcish wars, while uncomfortable, has got my attention. I fought in the last one. So did Lisutaris, Gurd, and practically every other able-bodied Turanian who was old enough to wield a blade or chant a spell. In the climax of a savage and destructive conflict we threw them back from the walls, but it was a close thing till the Elves arrived from the south. Without their aid, Turai would now be an outpost of the Orcish empire, or a pile of ruins.
“So the Orcish Sorcerers have been busy and we’re now dependent on the green jewel.”
“That’s right,” says Lisutaris. “I trust I’ve impressed you with the great importance of this item?”
“You have. So what about it?”
“It was entrusted to me.”
“And?”
“I lost it.”
“You lost it? How?”
“I put it in my bag when I went to the chariot races. Which was not as careless as it might sound. To use the jewel properly, it’s necessary for a Sorcerer to become very familiar with it, and learn its properties in all circumstances. Unfortunately when I returned home it was no longer in my bag. I think it may have dropped out when I was giving my secretary some money to place a bet.”
“What chariot?”
“City Destroyer.”
“Bad choice. I lost a bundle on that.”
“The jewel was—”
“Didn’t you think there was something fishy about the way it dropped out of the running on the last lap? I think the charioteer may have been bribed.”
“Of course I looked for it at the time but—”
“I’m not convinced that Melus the Fair was the right choice for Stadium Sorcerer. I’m sure there’s some corruption going on that she’s not picking up on—”
Lisutaris informs me coldly that she didn’t come here to discuss our mutual misfortunes at the races.
“I’ve just lost the most important weapon in the nation’s armoury and I need it back quickly. If word of this gets out, the King will have me expelled from the city, or possibly something worse. So I’d appreciate it if you’d start investigating without further delay.”
“No need to get upset. I was just sharing in your misfortunes. City Destroyer should have won that race at a canter. It’s getting so a man can’t make an honest bet these days.”
I notice that the Mistress of the Sky has a threatening glint in her eye. I get down to business.
“You’ll need to tell me some more details.”
“The green jewel is set in a pendant, Elvish silverwork, quite distinctive. However, I do not require you to do much investigating. Though I was unable to find the pendant immediately—you will understand that I did not wish to draw attention to my loss by performing a spell at the Stadium Superbius under the nose of Consul Kalius—as soon as I returned home I put my powers to use. I have now located the pendant by means of sorcery. It’s being held in a tavern next to the harbour. The Spiked Mace. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes. It’s the sort of place you’d expect stolen jewels to end up.”
“So I imagined. You will understand, Thraxas, that absolute secrecy is necessary. I cannot allow the King, the Consul or any of my fellow Sorcerers to learn that I have lost the jewel. That being the case, I am unable to stride into the tavern myself and start blasting people with spells. Explanations would be called for which I would be unwilling to provide.”
I understand well enough. In a city which hates and fears the Orcs, anyone found to have carelessly lost our most powerful protection against them would soon find their life not worth living. It is a shocking piece of carelessness on Lisutaris’s part, though in truth it’s not surprising. Her thazis habit is so severe that bad things were bound to happen once she ended up head of the Guild.
“Why didn’t you just send someone from your household?”
“I deem it too much of a risk. Even if they were not recognised there is no telling who might later learn of the affair. Turanian servants are not known for their discretion. My secretary is of course absolutely loyal, but she is a young woman of rather delicate constitution and not suitable for a task such as this. Though I know the address where you may find the jewel, I do not know what else you might find there.”
“Someone who really doesn’t want to return it, most likely. The Spiked Mace is the original den of thieves. Don’t worry, I’ll get it back.”
From Lisutaris’s description of events, it seems quite possible that the thief won’t realise what he’s got. He may believe he’s holding nothing more than a normal piece of dress jewellery and try to sell it as soon as possible for a modest profit.
Lisutaris shifts uncomfortably in the sticky heat of my office. During the winter the Mistress of the Sky, like every other Sorcerer, had warming spells on her apparel to fight off the bitter cold, but cooling oneself by sorcery is far more difficult. A worried expression flits across her face.
“Given that discretion is essential, you won’t start throwing your legal powers around, will you?”
I frown. I’ve been busy trying to forget that I had any legal powers. After many years as a private citizen, I was unexpectedly elevated to the position of Tribune of the People some months ago by Cicerius, the Deputy Consul. The Tribunate, a sort of official citizens’ representative, was an extinct post till Cicerius nominated me last winter. He did this purely so I would be granted access to the Sorcerers Assemblage. It was never his intention, or mine, that I’d actually do anything official, but I was blackmailed into using my Tribune’s powers to halt an eviction, something which carried with it various political ramifications. Since I’m always keen to avoid getting involved in Turai’s murky political world, I’ve been playing down the Tribune bit as much as possible ever since, and have flatly refused to use the authority of the position again, knowing that it will only land me in trouble with some powerful party or other.
“Don’t worry. The post was purely honorary. Senator Lodius forced me into action once, but that’s it.”
The position lasts for a year and I’m hoping that the last few months of my term will run out unnoticed by all, leaving me once more a private citizen. A man who goes around using political power in Turai needs a lot more protection than I’ve got.
Lisutaris lights another thazis stick.
“You didn’t gamble the jewel away, did you?”
She has the good grace to smile.
“No. I’m still wealthy. However, if the loss is made public, you will not be the only person to make that remark. The Stadium Superbius was an unfortunate place to lose the pendant and there has been some jealousy in certain circles since I was elected head of the Guild.”
Lisutaris takes out her purse and lays some money on the table.
“Thirty gurans. Your standard retainer, I believe. There’s one more thing. I positively must have the jewel back quickly. In four days’ time I’m holding a masked ball at my mansion and the Crown Prince will be there, along with Kalius and Cicerius. It is entirely likely that they will wish to view the jewel. Consul Kalius was, I know, somewhat dubious about letting me take it from the Palace.”
I’m not surprised. Anyone who saw Lisutaris stumbling around the Sorcerers Assemblage in a thazis-induced stupor would have been dubious about letting her take anything valuable home with her.
“Couldn’t you cancel the ball?”
“I’ll get it back.”
“When you have it, be certain not to stare into it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a powerful sorcerous object. Handling the pendant for a short space of time is quite safe, but it could be hazardous for an untrained person to gaze deeply into the green jewel. It may induce fainting, or worse.”
“I’ll put it straight into my pocket.”
Lisutaris is now on to her third thazis stick. She finishes it, drops the end in my bin, and lights another.
“How is Makri?”
Lisutaris is acquainted with Makri; she hired her to be her bodyguard at the Sorcerers Assemblage.
“Same as usual. Busy and bad-tempered.”
“I have something for her.”
The Sorcerer hands me an envelope. Makri’s name is written on it in the fancy script of a professional scribe. I promise to pass it on. I’m curious, but I figure it’s none of my business, so after Lisutaris leaves I dump it in Makri’s room. Then I douse myself with water to get rid of the last effects of the alcohol and thazis, and strap on my sword. Finally I load one spell—the most I can comfortably manage—into my memory and head out into the streets. Outside, the knife sharpener and the fish vendor are still arguing. It’s bound to end in violence.
Chapter Three
At the foot of the stairs, I run into Moxalan, younger son of Honest Mox the bookmaker. Only son I should say, as his older sibling succumbed to an overdose of dwa last winter, around the same time that Minarixa the baker also died of an overdose. I miss the baker terribly. Life isn’t the same without her pastries. I don’t miss Mox’s son, but as I do a lot of trade with the bookmaker, it’s as well to be civil to his family.
Moxalan is around nineteen, open-faced and friendly, not yet having taken on the mean and cunning look of the hardened bookmaker. His tunic is plain but well cut and his sandals are expensive enough to let anyone know that his father’s business isn’t doing badly. We exchange greetings and he tells me that he’s here to ask Makri for help with some theories of architecture, which makes no sense to me.
“Theories of architecture?”
“For the Guild College. We’re in the same class. I missed a lecture so I want Makri’s notes.”
I didn’t know Honest Mox was sending his younger son to Guild College, though it’s not really a surprise. A man who’s raking in as much cash as Mox can afford the fees, and Mox, as a bookmaker, has very low social status in the city. It’s not uncommon for men of low status who find themselves wealthy to try and improve the family lot by educating their sons and getting them into the civil service, or something similar.
“Not entering the family business, then?”
He shakes his head.
“I help out a little, but my father wants me to better myself. Is Makri in the tavern?”
“Yes. She’s working.”
Moxalan is confident that Makri will have a full set of notes from the course.
“She’s the best student. Much better than me. Did you know she’s top of every class?”
I didn’t. Makri probably mentioned it but I don’t pay that much attention. I notice that Moxalan’s face goes a little dopey as he mentions Makri’s name. I recognise the symptom. Young men, on seeing Makri’s impressive figure crammed into two barely adequate strips of chainmail, tend to forget that their mothers want them to marry a sensible girl from a good family and their fathers warned them to stay away from women with Orcish blood. Even the Elves were impressed, and it’s next door to taboo for Elves to be impressed by anything remotely connected to the Orcs. What these young men don’t realise is that their mothers were right. Life with Makri would be hell, no matter how fabulous they think her figure is. She’ll never shake off the effects of growing up as a gladiator. At the first sign of a domestic argument, Makri would very likely behead her husband and paint her face with his blood.
“I thought she’d be with you,” says Moxalan.
“Why?”
“Because of the warning.”
Again I don’t know what he’s talking about. Moxalan explains that he’s heard about Dandelion warning me of a bloodbath. In a place like Twelve Seas, rumours travel fast. I’m aggravated, and not just because I don’t like my private business becoming the stuff of gossip. The implication seems to be that if I’m heading into danger I need Makri to protect me. As if I didn’t get along fine for years before she arrived.
“Don’t worry about me,” I grunt, and take my leave.
The Spiked Mace is an unpleasant little establishment close to the harbour, full of drunken sailors and unruly stevedores. Unlike many of the local taverns, it’s not owned by the Brotherhood, the criminal gang that controls most of the crime south of the river. Which is good news for me. If I tried to remove stolen loot from the Brotherhood, they’d be down on me like a bad spell. Most likely I’ll find the pendant in the hands of some petty thief who’ll be keen to sell it as soon as possible to raise money for his next dose of dwa. If the guy is desperate enough and lets me have it cheap, I might even make a profit on the deal. Hell, Lisutaris isn’t going to gripe over a few gurans, not with the wealth she has, and her huge villa in Thamlin. It’s a simple job and shouldn’t involve much thought, which is just as well, as the heat makes thinking an arduous business.
As usual, contact with a member of the Turanian aristocracy has left me envious of their wealth. I’ve always been poor. A few years ago I worked my way up to a nice job as Senior Investigator at the Palace, with a big office, a nice home and lackeys to do the work. Then I drank myself out of the job. My father always said I’d come to nothing. So far I’ve been unable to prove him wrong.
The sun beats down. The streets are as hot as Orcish hell, and inside the Spiked Mace it’s worse. The heat mingles with the smell of rancid ale and burning dwa. Thazis smoke drifts over the tables. The wooden beams overhead are blackened with age. The prostitute who patrols the area with red ribbons in her hair strives vainly to interest the largely inebriated clientele. There’s a woman on the floor who looks like she might be dead. I shake my head. This is about as low as life gets. No civilised person would visit this tavern.
“Thraxas! We were wondering where you’d got to.”
I come here occasionally. Mainly in the line of business. The barman, and owner of the establishment, is Gavarax, one-time captain of his own fighting trireme till he was kicked out of the navy for failing to hand over booty to the King. He’s dark-skinned and has a scar stretching from chin to eyebrow, a result of some naval encounter which he’s not shy of bragging about when the old salts get to remembering the old days. Taking a beer merely to be polite, I ask him if there’s been anyone in trying to sell a stolen jewel. Gavarax isn’t the sort of man who’d give information to the Civil Guard, but he knows me well enough to pass on anything that won’t get him into trouble, providing there’s something in it for him.
Gavarax waits till the customer at the bar—a docker, from his red bandanna, but not one who’s planning on working in the next week or two—departs unsteadily with his drink before leaning over to inform me quietly that actually, yes, there was a man of that sort. I slide a few gurans over the bar.
“He’s upstairs now in the private room. With a couple of others. Never seen them before.”
I make to leave. Gavarax grabs my arm.
“If you’re going to kill anyone, go easy on the furniture.”
Making my way through the smoky, noisy room to the stairs at the back, I’m thinking that this case is going to be even easier than I anticipated. I climb the stairs and wait outside the room, listening. Not a sound. I boot the door open and march in, sleep spell ready, in case anyone is planning on resisting.
There are four men in the room, but they’re not going to do much resisting. Three of them are dead and the other one looks l
ike he’ll be joining them soon. Each one stabbed. It makes for a very large puddle of blood. I bend over the only one who’s still breathing, albeit shallowly.
“What happened?”
He tries to look at me, but his eyes won’t focus.
“I was on a beautiful golden ship,” he whispers. Then he coughs up some blood and dies.
As last words go, they’re fairly strange. I file them away for later consideration and look round the room. The window at the back is open and there’s blood on the sill. There’s an alleyway outside and it’s not too far to the ground. No problem making a getaway, though I’m wondering quite what sort of person it was who got away. Obviously a person or persons capable of taking care of themselves. The dead men are all wearing swords. Petty thieves aren’t necessarily trained fighters, but it’s never that easy to kill four armed opponents.
Moving quickly, I start searching the bodies. They’re still warm. I’ve handled plenty of corpses in my time but I don’t enjoy it. I recognise one of them. Axaten, a petty thief, often worked at the Stadium Superbius, picking up whatever he could from careless race-goers. I don’t recognise the other three. None of them has the pendant. All I find are a few coins in their purses. No tattoos, nothing identifying them as belonging to any organisation. I search the room, again without results.
I look down into the alley. An easy enough drop for a lighter person maybe, but with my bulk I’m not keen to try it out. Besides, there’s the matter of four corpses to consider. I’d like nothing better than to leave them here and sneak out, but there’s no point. Gavarax isn’t going to cover for me. As soon as the bodies are found, he’ll squeal to the Civil Guard and I’ll be a handy suspect for murder.
I curse mightily and retrace my steps downstairs to the bar. Gavarax isn’t pleased.
“Four of them? All dead? The guards are going to love this.”
His eyes narrow.
“Did you kill them?”
“I’m not that quick with a sword these days.”
Gavarax glances at my belly. He can believe it. He sends a boy off with a message and I wait in the dingy tavern for the guards to arrive. I’m now in for what will undoubtedly be an uncomfortable interrogation. I’m going to have more than a few words to say to Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky.