by Martin Scott
We have a new cook at the Avenging Axe, a woman by the name of Elsior. Not such a bad cook but not a match for Tanrose, peerless mistress of the venison stew, now estranged from Gurd and living with her mother in Pashish. When she and Gurd failed to sort out their romantic difficulties—their main difficulty being that Gurd finds it impossible to be romantic—I thought it would be no more than a temporary problem. Having come to rely utterly on Tanrose’s stew, pies, pastries and desserts, I couldn’t believe she’d be gone for long. I even went so far as to visit her to plead Gurd’s case, not something that came easy to a man like myself, with a notably bad track record in matters of the heart. All to no avail. Tanrose remains outraged by Gurd’s criticism of her book-keeping practices and refuses to return. My explanation that it was merely the rough Barbarian’s way of showing affection came to naught. Tanrose is sulking in her tenement, and the patrons of the Avenging Axe are suffering.
I’ve marched all over the world with a sword in my hand. I’ve fought Orcs, men, dragons and trolls. I’ve seen friends butchered and cities in flames, but I can’t think of anything to compare with the suffering caused by Minarixa’s death and Tanrose’s departure. Life without either of them doesn’t bear thinking about.
Gurd takes a beer from Dandelion, though he rarely drinks during his working day. He isn’t the most cheerful soul these days either. Tanrose’s departure was a severe shock. It took him more than five years to even acknowledge his feelings towards her. Having got that far, the recalcitrant old warrior was actually on the point of proposing marriage when the blow fell. He’s not a man to express his private emotions, even to his oldest friend, but I can tell he’s suffering. Only last week I was telling the story of our notable victory over the Niojans to a group of young mercenaries. When I looked over to Gurd to support me in my claim—entirely truthful—that the two of us had put a whole squadron of Niojan guards to flight, Gurd just sat there with a blank expression on his face, mumbling that it was a long time ago and he couldn’t remember it all that well. It completely ruined my story. I was flabbergasted. If Gurd won’t join in with the old army stories, there’s something seriously wrong.
We make for a sad trio, Gurd, Makri and I. I order another beer. In the circumstances, it’s the only thing to do.
Chapter Two
As afternoon turns into evening, Gurd leaves his place at my side to help serve the drinkers who begin to arrive in the tavern. After finishing their shifts in the local docks, warehouses, smithies or tanneries, many of them prefer to brace themselves with an ale or two before going home to the local tenements, which are generally poorly built, draughty and leaky. Not comfortable places, with a family crammed into a couple of small rooms and the local water supply never being quite sufficient.
Every year the King promises that conditions will improve for the poorer inhabitants of Turai. The Consul makes the same promise, with a fine speech in the Senate. Our local Prefect, Drinius, is proud to share their sentiments. But nothing ever seems to get better. Turai has certainly become richer in the past twenty years, but precious little of that wealth has ever found its way into Twelve Seas.
I take two beers and a plate of stew upstairs to my room. Once more, the stew is a disappointment. Tanrose had a way with stew. It was a gift. Maybe a calling. The new cook has not yet found the art. Outside, the street is noisy. Vendors, taking advantage of the fine weather, are keen to sell their goods, hoping to make enough to get them through the harsh winter. Winter will be here in a month or so. Another reason not to rejoice. Winter in Turai is hell. Makri’s right. It was a foolish place to build a city. A good harbour isn’t everything.
There’s a knock on my door, the one that leads via a staircase directly to the street outside. I consider answering it. I should. It might be a client. On the other hand, I’m tired and full of beer. Sleeping on my couch seems like a better option. Let them take their problems to the Civil Guard, it’s what they’re there for. The knocking continues and it’s followed by a loud voice.
“Thraxas. Open this door. Official business.”
I recognise the voice. Hansius, assistant to Deputy Consul Cicerius. Not a visitor I can ignore, unfortunately. I haul the door open and scowl at the young man.
“What do you want?”
“Official business.”
“So what?”
I let him in. I’ve nothing against Hansius really, except that he’s young, clean cut, and headed for a comfortable life as a Senator. I really hold that against him.
Hansius is clad in his official toga. He’s a handsome young man and his teeth are a few shades whiter than you’d normally encounter in Twelve Seas.
“If Cicerius wants to hire me tell him he has to pay better this time.”
“The Deputy Consul has paid you adequately for all services rendered,” responds Hansius, curtly. He casts his eye briefly over the mess that clutters up my room. I feel annoyed.
“Want a beer?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Cicerius instructs me to summon you to a meeting tomorrow.”
“Sorry. I’m right off the idea of attending meetings these days.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because my plate of stew was really sub-standard. And I’m facing a charge of cowardice. So I’m not so keen on helping the city at this moment.”
“It’s an official summons,” declares Hansius, as if that’s an end to the matter.
“Is there going to be food?”
“I imagine there will be provisions on hand.”
“Will you send a carriage?”
Hansius is a young man capable of tact and diplomacy. As aide to the Deputy Consul, he’s already developed his political skills. But for some reason he starts to show signs of impatience.
“Are you unable to make the journey on your own?”
“I might be. Is Cicerius going to let the charges against me proceed?”
“The charges against you, Thraxas, are not the business of the Deputy Consul’s office. Once the allegation has been made it must go before the courts, as you know.”
“Sure I know. The fact that I risked my life a hundred times for this lousy city has nothing to do with it. What does Cicerius want?”
“Everything will be explained at the conference.”
“Conference? With other people? Cicerius isn’t just hiring me to cover up some scandal one of his corrupt Senator buddies has got himself into?”
Hansius frowns. Now I’m annoying him. It makes me feel a little better.
“It is a formal meeting. At the Consul’s office.”
“The Consul’s office?”
That’s surprising. Cicerius, the Deputy Consul, has on occasion summoned me when he needed some help with a matter not suitable for investigation by the higher class of Investigators who work up-town, but it’s rare for any common citizen to be summoned to the office of Consul Kalius, the city’s highest official.
“Please be there at noon.”
Having had enough of trading words with a large angry Investigator, Hansius abruptly departs. I head for the couch, but before I can lie down the door opens and Makri walks in.
“How many times have I told you to knock?”
Makri shrugs. She can’t seem to get used to the civilised habit of knocking on doors. I shouldn’t be surprised. After two years in the city, she’s still not great with cutlery.
“What did Hansius want?”
I pick up my empty plate and brandish it.
“You see this stew? Deficient in every way. Taste, texture, presentation. All lacking. And you know why? I’ll tell you why. Because Tanrose didn’t cook it. And why is that? Because you advised her to leave the tavern.”
Makri refuses to acknowledge the truth of this. She claims that her advice to Tanrose was simply to take a little time to herself to consider her relationship with Gurd. She wasn’t expecting Tanrose to up and leave. Since then I’ve spent many a dissatis
fied mealtime cursing the day that an axe-wielding Barbarian like Makri ever got the notion that she was qualified to give personal advice to anyone.
“Will you never stop complaining about that?” protests Makri. “I miss Tanrose too. It’s bad enough that you and Gurd are continually going round as miserable as a pair of Niojan whores, but now I’ve got no one to discuss—”
I hold up my hand.
“Please. If this is going anywhere near the area of intimate female bodily functions, I don’t want to hear it. I still haven’t got over the last time.”
“Fine,” says Makri, sitting down on my only comfortable chair. “So what did Hansius want?”
There was a time, not too long ago, when I never discussed my affairs with anyone. As an Investigator it’s necessary to be discreet. But in the two years or so since Makri arrived in the city I’ve found myself, almost without noticing, slipping into the habit of telling her about my business. I still balk at this occasionally but in general I don’t mind. Makri is discreet, trustworthy and, more to the point, as lethal a fighter as ever set foot in Turai. Many times over the past two years I’ve been pleased to have her sword or axe at my side. Not that I’m going to admit it to her. Makri is always bragging about her exploits as champion gladiator and doesn’t need any encouragement from me.
“Summoned me to a meeting. At the Consul’s office, which is unusual.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Possibly. But I didn’t really get that impression from Hansius.”
“Maybe they’re going to offer you another official position,” suggests Makri.
“That’s unlikely.”
“You were a Tribune.”
It’s true, I was. Still am, technically. Last winter I was appointed Tribune of the People by Cicerius, as a convenient way of giving me the official status necessary to attend the Sorcerers Assemblage. And a Tribune of the People turned out to have a fair amount of power. On one occasion I prevented Praetor Capatius from evicting the tenants of one of his buildings in Twelve Seas. The Praetor is one of the richest men in Turai and he wasn’t too pleased about it.
The appointment has now almost expired, and I can’t say I’m sorry. The post wasn’t exactly cushy. It was unpaid and any action I took always led to trouble. Politics is a dangerous game in this city, particularly for a man without a party to support him. I haven’t used the Tribune’s powers for any reason recently, and I don’t intend to.
“I’m bored,” says Makri.
“It beats being unhappy over an Elf.”
“I’m also unhappy over an Elf. But I’m bored as well. My college is closed for a week. Some stupid holiday. What do they need a holiday for?”
“Probably to recover from teaching you. Don’t you have books or scrolls to study?”
“I’ve read them all,” says Makri.
Makri seems to be well in advance of her studies. The woman’s energy can be quite disturbing. Reading scrolls, going to the Imperial Library, attending lectures, and working shifts in the Avenging Axe to pay for it all. And if it’s not that it’s weapons practice. At some point every day the back yard resounds with the noise of Makri knocking hell out of targets with her collection of swords, axes, knives, throwing stars and whatever else she has in her weapons chest. For a woman who can be ridiculously enthusiastic about some tedious old Elvish playwright, she still shows great dedication to her fighting skills.
Of course, I was a champion fighter myself, back in my younger days. And I didn’t need to go around practising all the time. I just had a natural talent for it.
“Don’t you have any criminals I could attack?”
“Well, technically, Makri, they’re meant to commit a crime first. And business is quiet just now.”
“Do you want to go back to the Fairy Glade?” asks Makri, unexpectedly.
“That’s a long ride.”
Makri and I did visit the Fairy Glade on one occasion, but we haven’t had reason to go back since. Makri sighs. She liked it there, and the magical creatures of the glade certainly seemed to like her, even though no creature with Orcish blood is supposed to be able to enter. The fairies were all over her and she practically had to fight off the centaurs, who are lascivious creatures by nature.
Makri looks glum.
“I can’t really take time off from the tavern just now. I need money to pay my fees at the library. You know, when I killed all those Orcs and escaped to Turai to get an education, I never thought it would be so expensive.”
It’s true. Turai is famed for its scholarship but almost all of the students are the sons of the upper classes, whose fathers can afford the fees at the Imperial University. The Guild College Makri attends is less expensive, and the Federation of Guilds provides some help for the students, but even so, all of the scholars there are sons of relatively wealthy Guild members—merchants, goldsmiths, glassmakers and the like. I don’t think there’s anyone else there actually paying their own fees like Makri.
“Maybe I’ll just take a walk outside the city walls tomorrow. You want to come?”
The idea of taking a walk outside the city walls for no apparent reason is so baffling I’m stuck for an immediate reply. Makri says she just feels like seeing something different.
“Could we at least look at the Fairy Glade?”
“You mean by sorcery?” I shake my head. A good Sorcerer like Lisutaris could open a seeing-window on the Fairy Glade without much effort, but my own sorcerous powers are so limited these days it would take too much expenditure of energy.
“Then I guess I’ll have to make do with thazis,” sighs Makri, lighting one of my thazis sticks. I pour a little beer for her, then pass her a glass of klee.
“The intoxicants of the poor.”
I start setting up the pieces on my niarit board. Niarit is a cunning game of skill and strategy at which Makri, despite her much-vaunted “I’m-top-of-the-class” intellect, has so far never defeated me. Only to be expected, really. I’m the undisputed niarit champion of Twelve Seas, and have in my time defeated lords, ladies, philosophers, Sorcerers and whoever else was foolish enough to challenge me. I take a hefty slug of klee and prepare for an infantry attack supported by elephants that will sweep Makri’s forces from the board.
“This time you’re dead,” mutters Makri, and moves her Hero quickly into play. “And pass me the klee.”
Makri shudders as the fiery spirit burns her throat.
Top-quality klee, made by monks in the mountains. I let her Hero advance up the board, pretending to fall back with my troops, not even pushing up my Harper to increase the morale of my front line. Makri sends her heavy cavalry up my right flank, preparing, I imagine, for a pincer movement. Poor Makri. She might be number one chariot with a sword in her hand, and the smartest student in the Guild College, but she has a lot to learn about the art of war. Less than half an hour later Makri is looking glumly at the remnants of her army, now falling back in full retreat before the wave of elephants, infantry and light cavalry currently sweeping up the board as directed by Thraxas, unstoppable warlord.
True to her character, Makri refuses to surrender and plays the game to its bitter end. My troops place their siege tower next to her castle, swarm up the ladders, kill everyone inside and hoist a flag in triumph. Well, metaphorically anyway. There isn’t actually a flag.
Makri stubs her thazis stick out in disgust.
“Why do you always beat me?”
“I’m smarter than you.”
“Like hell you are. You’ve just been playing longer.”
That’s what Makri always says, generally with a angry scowl and occasionally with some implications of cheating on my part. She’s a very poor loser. I ask her if she’d like another game. She shakes her head.
“I have to go out.”
“Out? Where?”
“I’m teaching a class.”
This is a surprise.
“At the college?”
“No, they wouldn’t let me tea
ch there. Not that I couldn’t. My Elvish is far better than some of these professors. I’m going to Morixa’s bakery to teach some women to read.”
I’m still puzzled. Makri explains that she’s been asked by the organiser of the local chapter of the Association of Gentlewomen if she’d like to teach reading to some women in the area.
“I didn’t know you had a reading programme.”
Makri notices the disapproving tone in my voice.
“You think it’s a bad idea?”
“Not at all. A fine idea. If someone else was organising it.”
“So who else is going to organise it in this city?”
Makri has a point. Very few women go to school in Turai. The wealthy classes often arrange private tuition for their daughters, but only a tiny proportion of women in a poor area like Twelve Seas have ever had any sort of schooling. Not that the men round here are exactly intellectual. I wouldn’t disapprove at all if it wasn’t for the involvement of the Association of Gentlewomen, a collection of malcontents, harridans and troublemakers who are quite rightly frowned upon by all honest citizens of Turai.
“Remember what happened last time you taught anything?”
Makri frowns.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wouldn’t say you were a patient tutor. You almost killed that young Elf on Avula.”
Makri waves this away.
“An entirely different matter. I was teaching her to fight. A little rough treatment was necessary.”
“A little rough treatment? I saw you kick her in the face.”
“So? She learned how to fight, didn’t she? She won the junior sword-fighting tournament. I regard the whole thing as a triumph.”