by Martin Scott
“Yes.”
“You appreciate I really am a Tribune of the People? You can’t throw me out of this place while I’m conducting an investigation.”
The guards shrug. I don’t get the impression they’re that desperate to do the Professor’s bidding. Probably he’s not the sort of man to inspire loyalty among his menial staff.
“You know Makri?”
The larger of the two guards almost smiles.
“We know her.”
“Violent temper,” adds his companion.
“Once chased some poor young guy round the building after he made some comment she didn’t like. What does she expect? She doesn’t exactly cover herself up a lot.”
I ask them what they know about the expulsion. They don’t know much.
“We weren’t involved. All we heard was that some money went missing and she took it. The Professor told us to make sure she didn’t get back in the building.”
“Did you look into it at all?”
“Why would we?” asks the larger guard. “We’re just here to keep the dwa dealers outside from bothering the students. If the Professor expels someone, it’s nothing to do with us.”
“She probably stole the money,” adds the other guard. “I didn’t mind the woman, but she is part Orcish. She was bound to start stealing sooner or later.”
“Good body, though,” adds his friend. “She should stick to being a dancer.”
I ask if they know of anyone who might fill me in on a few more details. They suggest Rabaxos.
“It was his money that went missing. Probably find him in the library now. He’s a little guy in a shabby tunic. Always got his nose in a scroll. Father owns a fishing boat but I guess being a fisherman isn’t good enough for his son. Why are you so bothered about the girl anyway?”
A good question. I leave them without answering it. It’s hot and stuffy inside the old building but I’ve got more on my mind than the uncomfortable weather. I swore I wouldn’t use my Tribunate powers again for any reason. Now, thanks to Makri, I’ve been forced into it. I know what’s going to happen now. People are going to appear at my door, asking for help. Once the downtrodden masses learn that I’ve invoked my powers, they’ll all be looking for assistance. Every person in Twelve Seas with some gripe against authority will be demanding action. I’d better strengthen my door-locking spell. I’ve no intention of spending my life helping the downtrodden masses; I’m downtrodden enough myself.
That’s not the worst of it. Deputy Consul Cicerius was furious when I used my powers during the winter, particularly as it was to aid Senator Lodius, head of the opposition party. If I get involved in anything else of a similar nature, Cicerius will be down on me like a bad spell. Once a man gets involved in politics in this city, there’s no telling what might happen. Time was when the Tribunes of the People were forever entering into the political fray. More often than not they ended up being assassinated for their troubles, or dragged up in court on trumped-up charges by their opponents. To be a politician in this city you need a lot of backing, and a lot of backing is something I don’t have.
When I remember that not only has Makri forced me into using my legal powers, thereby practically ensuring that I’ll be run out of town at the earliest opportunity, as well as placing bets on how many corpses I’m liable to run into in the next few days, but she’s also received an invitation to Lisutaris’s smart party, I start to seethe. Damn the woman. How can I be expected to get along in this city when I have to act as nursemaid to a pointy-eared ex-gladiator who doesn’t know how to behave in a civilised society? It wasn’t too long ago that she was terrifying the honest citizens of Twelve Seas by talking publicly about her menstruation problems, and if it’s not that, it’s killing a dwa dealer and bringing the Brotherhood down on my neck, or getting so drunk when we went to the Elvish Isles that she actually threw up over the Crown Prince’s sandals. Much more of this and I’ll be taking a fast horse southwards.
By the time I reach the library—another room containing an indecent amount of books and scrolls—I’m in a thoroughly bad mood. I demand to see Rabaxos and, ignoring the multitude of requests for me to keep my voice down, I keep on demanding till eventually a student leads me behind a book stack to a small table where a puny-looking individual with his hair tied back with a cheap piece of ribbon has his nose firmly in a scroll written in the common Elvish tongue. I speak Elvish myself, though I don’t go around studying it in libraries.
“I’m here investigating the theft of your money.”
He shrinks back in his chair.
“And if you don’t tell me exactly what happened, I’ll make sure you end up on a prison ship. It’ll be a long time before you get to study an Elvish scroll again.”
Chapter Six
On my way back to the Avenging Axe, I call in at the local Messengers Guild station, sending a note to Lisutaris letting her know what’s happened. I suggest she try to locate the jewel again and also suggest she uses her considerable powers of sorcery to find out what the hell is going on. Seven dead bodies is a lot for one pendant that no one is supposed to know about.
The sun is directly overhead and the streets are intolerably hot and dusty. There’s little activity save for a bunch of ragged children splashing around in an old fountain that feeds off the local aqueduct. A few more days like this and the water supply is likely to dry up, which will probably lead to a riot. The mood I’m in, I wouldn’t mind doing some rioting. I have the grimmest foreboding about what’s going to happen now I’ve used my Tribune’s powers. I’ll have to send a report to an official at the Senate, and once that’s made public, there’s no telling what the result will be.
It’s clear to me that there was no proper inquiry at the Guild College. According to the young student Rabaxos he’d left the money in his locker for only a few minutes while he went to hand in a paper to one of his tutors. When he returned, the door had been forced open and the money was gone. I checked the lockers. They’re little more than wooden boxes with a clasp. Anyone could have forced it in less than a minute. No one saw the theft, but Makri was observed by several students entering and leaving the locker room around the time of the incident. Apart from that, there doesn’t seem to be any evidence against her. This doesn’t mean the staff at the College were outraged by her expulsion. Nor were the students. They’re all pretty much of the same opinion as Professor Toarius: that it was only a matter of time before Makri’s Orcish blood came to the fore and she started stealing.
Normally I’d be inclined to agree. Orcs are thieves, cheats and liars. You can’t trust an Orc for a second. Even a small amount of Orcish blood makes a person unreliable. Everyone in Turai knows that. Unfortunately, I also know that Makri didn’t steal the money, which means I have to find out who did. It’s going to be a lot of work over a measly five gurans, and a lot of work for which I’m not going to be paid. I shake my head. As a general rule, I never investigate for free. It creates the wrong impression.
As for Lisutaris’s jewel, that case went bad as soon as it started. If the pendant is really the last reliable way of warning Turai against imminent Orcish invasion, it might be time to consider leaving the city. No matter what Lisutaris believes, someone else obviously knew all about the pendant, probably before it was stolen. You don’t get multiple deaths and a burning tavern over any old piece of jewellery.
The fountain’s centrepiece is a small statue of St. Quatinius talking to a whale, modelled on one of the numerous exploits of our city’s patron. According to the story, the whale was full of religious knowledge. Perhaps signifying this, water pours from the beast’s mouth. I shove a few children out the way and take a drink. I eye St. Quatinius.
“You want to help me sort this out?” I ask. He doesn’t reply. To the best of my knowledge St. Quatinius has never come to my aid, though as I’m a man who frequently misses prayers, even though the regular saying of prayers is a legal requirement in Turai, I suppose I can’t complain.
&nb
sp; Back at the Avenging Axe, I grumble to Tanrose about the undignified outbreak of gambling on matters which are not suitable for gambling, namely Thraxas-related deaths. I’m expecting a sympathetic ear from our kindly cook. Unfortunately Tanrose is in a bad mood and brushes aside my complaints. It’s very rare for Tanrose to be in a bad mood. Apparently she’s been arguing with Gurd over payments for food deliveries. Gurd is at the far end of the bar, looking the other way, but when I take a beer and a plate of stew over to the far corner of the room he abandons his post at the bar and joins me. He’s not happy either.
“Never accuse a cook of paying too much for her eggs and flour,” I advise him. “It’ll always lead to trouble. Makes them think you don’t value their cooking.”
“It was an argument about nothing,” protests Gurd. “Tanrose just yelled at me for no reason. It must be the heat.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence. We both know that the usual reason for the rare moments of friction between them is Gurd’s inability to express his emotions. He was a fine man with a sword or an axe—no one better—but when it comes to telling his cook he’s sweet on her he just can’t do it.
“You’re going to have to say something sometime,” I say, uncomfortable as always about this type of conversation. “It’s no good just hanging round looking as miserable as a Niojan whore all day then complaining about her bookkeeping when you can’t think of anything else to say.”
Gurd shakes his head. In the tremendous heat his long grey hair is matted round his shoulders.
“It’s not so easy,” he mutters, and falls silent.
“Women, they’re all crazy,” says Parax the shoemaker, a very unwelcome intruder into the conversation.
I tell him to go away.
“And don’t start asking for the latest body count.”
“We already heard about the last three,” says Parax. “Seven so far. Makes my bet on twenty look pretty good.”
“Bexanos the ropemaker put a lot of money on twenty to twenty-five,” muses Gurd. “You think it might get that high?”
“Gurd, what’s got into you? How could you place bets on how many deaths there are going to be?”
“Why not?” says Gurd. “A bet is a bet.”
He has a point there.
“There’s no pleasing women,” says Parax, returning to his original theme. “My wife, no man could live with her.”
Parax’s wife might be happier if he spent more time actually making shoes and less sitting around in taverns, but I remain silent, not wishing to be drawn into this discussion.
“But we men, what do we do?” continues Parax. “Pander to them. Run around performing their every whim. It’s foolish, but that’s life.”
By this time Gurd is shifting round in his seat very uncomfortably, having no wish to hear his problems aired in public by anyone, particularly a shoemaker notorious for his lack of tact.
“Take Thraxas,” says Parax.
I sit up sharply.
“What about Thraxas?” I say.
“Well, where have you just been?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Working.”
“Investigating at the Guild College from what I hear. Trying to sort things out for Makri again.”
“What do you mean, again?”
“Come on,” scoffs Parax. “You’re always running round for that woman. You’ve been doing it ever since she arrived in the city.”
I should come back with a crushing rejoinder but the brazen audacity of Parax’s words has left me temporarily speechless.
“Don’t worry,” chuckles the idiotic shoemaker. “Plenty of men have fallen for girls half their age. And she’s got a fine figure, even if she does have Orc blood. Good enough to keep you warm in winter, eh, Thraxas?”
Noticing that I am now about to draw my sword and chop Parax’s head off, Gurd lays his hand on my arm. I manage to stifle the urge, but only just.
“Parax, you’re as dumb as an Orc. Go and bother someone else.”
Parax, like the insensitive troublemaker he is, won’t let it go.
“So how often do you work for free?”
“Never.”
“And how much is Makri paying you to sort out her problems?”
My bad temper gets a lot worse. Makri appears through the front door, cursing the heat. Perspiration makes her short man’s tunic stick to her body.
“Have you been to the College?” she asks immediately.
Parax guffaws.
“What’s so funny?” says Makri.
“Thraxas,” replies Parax, but noticing that I’m again struggling to draw my sword, he backs off, and moves away from our table. Makri pays him no further attention. She’s too eager to know what happened at the College.
“Professor Toarius wouldn’t speak to me,” I tell her. “He seems to hate you. In fact everyone there seems to hate you.”
Makri looks crestfallen. I’m pleased.
“But Rabaxos doesn’t really think you stole his money. He didn’t accuse you of the theft. Professor Toarius just leapt to that conclusion without any evidence as far as I can see. It’s odd the Professor is so vehement. He must know he doesn’t have enough evidence to stand up to my investigation.”
“He dislikes me enough not to care,” says Makri.
“Well, don’t despair. And don’t attack him with an axe. I’ll sort it out. And you can still do your examination.”
“I can? How?”
“I used my Tribune’s powers to stop the expulsion. That means it has to go before the Senate for discussion, which will take weeks. As of now, you’re still a student and can take the exam on schedule, in three days’ time.”
Makri is grateful, though you’d hardly know it. She mumbles a barely discernible thank-you. She’s another one who’s uncomfortable about showing emotion in public unless driven to it by rage. At the next table, Parax is sniggering. I rise to my feet.
“I have investigating to do,” I say, and depart briskly towards the stairs. I’ve barely sat down at my desk to consider matters when a messenger appears at my door carrying a missive from Lisutaris.
Have extended my powers, the message reads. Believe that jewel has now been transported to Blind Horse tavern in Kushni. Proceed there immediately.
I shake my head. The Blind Horse in the Kushni quarter. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the taverns are getting worse. The Blind Horse is the sort of place a man is grateful to come out of alive. If the clientele don’t get you, the klee will. With such a dubious venue as my next destination, I attempt to load a couple of spells into my memory. It takes a lot of effort. My sorcerous powers, always slight, are getting weaker every day. I still advertise myself as a Sorcerous Investigator to bring in the public, but really my powers are becoming negligible. Every time a Sorcerer uses a spell he has to relearn it before using it again, and these days I’m finding it very hard work. The door starts shaking from some violent knocking.
I wrench it open angrily. Casax, local Brotherhood boss, strides in without waiting for an invitation. He looks round with distaste at the mess, which, if I remember correctly, he did last time he was here.
“This place is getting worse.”
“At least it hasn’t burned to the ground.”
Casax smiles.
“We saved most of the important things. Now, would you like to tell me why my headquarters was set on fire? It’s the sort of thing I should know. Me being the most important crime boss in the area.”
“Yeah, I can see it’s bad for your image.”
“Very bad. So who did it?”
“How would I know?”
Casax’s eyes glint.
“Thraxas. I’m asking you in a friendly manner. I’m feeling friendly because you had the presence of mind to remind that useless Sorcerer of mine that he could put out the fire. Otherwise I’d be here with a dozen men. If you want me to come back with a dozen men I will. But I’d rather you just told me what was going on. I hear you
went down to the Spiked Mace looking for some jewellery. Next thing four guys were dead and the Guards are questioning you. They let you out and you come to the Mermaid and what do you know, the Mermaid is burning down and inside are three dead men who just happened to be selling stolen jewellery. Which makes me think you’re on the trail of some pretty important gems.”
Casax takes a seat.
“Is it anything to do with the Orc girl and the Guild College?”
It’s unpleasant to learn that Casax knows so much about my movements, but not a surprise. Casax is sharp as an Elf’s ear and he has a lot of men working for him. Few things happen in Twelve Seas without Casax learning of it.
“No. Nothing to do with Makri. She’s in a dispute over five gurans. Not enough to interest you.”
“Probably not. Though five gurans is five gurans.”
The sounds of arguing drift in from the street below. The vendors are still in dispute. Casax already knows all about Makri’s problems.
“One of my captains has a son at the College. Wants him to get some qualifications and go to the University. You think that’s a good idea?”
I shrug.
“Maybe. Better than a life of crime.”
“That depends on the criminal. Anyway, suppose the kid goes to the University and ends up in some post at the Palace or the Abode of Justice, taking bribes from Senators? You think that’s not a life of crime?”
“Maybe he’ll end up a professor. I believe they’re still fairly free from corruption.”
“No one is free from corruption in Turai. Still, you might be right. Education, it’s a bit of a mystery to me. I started in the business when I was six, running bets for a bookmaker. So I never had much time for school. But if my captain wants to send his son to the College, I’m not against it.”
He pauses, temporarily distracted by the increasing vehemence of the argument outside.
“Incidentally, this son I mentioned thinks that the Orc girl didn’t take the money.”
“She didn’t.”
“You’ll have a hard time proving it, Investigator. Up there Professor Toarius is the only one with authority. The Consul appointed him as a favour to the struggling citizens of Twelve Seas. I doubt he’s going to pay much attention to you.”