by Martin Scott
“And very interesting it was too. I count it an honour to be in your service.”
I excuse myself and make for my chair, head down, ignoring the crowd. In truth, the crowd are pretty much ignoring me. I’m out of my social class here, and well aware of it. Most of those at the meeting belong to Turai’s aristocracy and are clad in togas. My dull tunic is shabby in comparison. Their hair is short, neatly styled. Mine hangs long down my back. Their voices are more refined and their manners far better. Even my name, Thraxas, gives me away as low-born. It’s an odd quirk of fate, really, that I’ve ended up in this position. Had Cicerius known he was going to be stuck with me as a city official when he made me a Tribune, he might have thought twice about it.
The venison is excellent and the yams are cooked to perfection. Whoever takes care of the cooking for the Consul’s office really knows his business. The man is a credit to his city. So fine is the food that it’s a positive shock to the system when I bite into a sweet pastry and find it’s not been baked quite properly. Inside it’s doughy, as if it’s not been in the oven for long enough. I shrug, and push it to the side of my plate. Even the greatest chef can have an off moment, I suppose. Maybe one of his assistants was responsible. The next pastry is well up to the usual standard and I forget my disappointment, particularly when I see Cicerius and Hansius standing at the trolleys looking like two men who’ve arrived late at the party. There’s nothing left except a yam or two. Cicerius, always keen to maintain his dignity, pretends he doesn’t care, but I can tell he’d have liked a slice of venison, or maybe some grilled fish. The grilled fish was quite superb, and I speak as a man who doesn’t eat a lot of fish as a rule. When you’re in a stranger’s house you just have to take what you can get.
I’m about to ask one of the catering staff if there might be any beer on offer when the Consul himself walks into the room and I’m obliged to stand as a mark of respect. The city Prefects who are here—Galwinius, Drinius, Resius—gather around him. There’s a moment’s awkwardness when the Consul turns round and finds himself face to face with Senator Lodius. In the spirit of national unity the Consul greets him courteously. Given some of the things Lodius has accused the Consul of in the Senate this year, this must take some effort. Senator Lodius, probably keen not to be seen doing anything which might rock the boat at such a perilous time, returns the Consul’s greeting, equally courteously. The Consul steps away to talk to Cicerius, leaving the Prefects still in the company of Lodius. Galwinius and Drinius are both opponents of Lodius, though Prefect Resius has been suspected in the past of having some sympathy for the Populares. Again there’s some awkwardness. Galwinius fiddles with a scroll he’s carrying and Resius scratches his head. Despite this, they mange to carry on with their show of civility. No one wants to be seen causing dissension, not even Lodius and Galwinius, who are due to face each other in court soon in a messy fraud case. In an effort to be civil, Senator Lodius even goes so far as to raise the silver platter he holds in his hand, offering Galwinius a choice of food. The Prefect accepts his offer, taking a small pastry from the plate. I’m impressed. National unity is going over big in all quarters.
Prefect Galwinius turns to speak to Senator Bevarius, the Consul’s assistant. Before he can complete his sentence, his face goes red and he puts his hand to his throat, as if choking. There’s a sudden deathly silence in the room as all eyes turn to the Prefect. Drinius reaches out to support him as he sags to the ground.
By this time I’ve hurried over, because I’ve got a good idea that Galwinius is not just choking on his food. It’s hard to see through the clutter of Prefects and Praetors, but from the way his face is turning green and his eyes are bulging I’d say Galwinius has been poisoned. People cry out in alarm and yell for a doctor. I force my way through. Galwinius is already in his death throes. He shivers for only a few seconds more, then goes still. He isn’t going to be needing a doctor. The Prefect is dead.
Chaos erupts in the room. Some people are yelling for assistance while others struggle to get closer to the prone body as if somehow their presence will help. Unable to carry out any sort of examination, I let myself be forced back from the body. I look around. The only person who’s standing quite still is Senator Lodius, the man who handed the food to the Prefect. I cross over to him and look him right in the eye. From the blank way he stares through me I’d say that he was profoundly shocked. Or possibly horrified by what he’s just done.
“Lodius. What do you know about this?”
Lodius looks blank. I shake him by the shoulder and he manages to focus on me.
“Lodius. Where did you get that bowl from?”
“Get your hands off me!” he snarls.
Before I can respond, two uniformed Civil Guards get between us. The room is filling up with Guards, which is only adding to the confusion. Finally a commanding voice rises about the babble of the crowd. Cicerius, the finest orator in the city, speaks in such an authoritative manner that the room falls silent.
“Make room for the doctor,” he says. “And everyone in this room remain where you are until the Consul orders otherwise.”
This causes some consternation. The high-ranking Senators and Praetors in the crowd aren’t used to being treated like suspects in a murder case. I am. I’ve been in the slammer more times than I can count. While others are still milling around, I take a chair and sit down to wait. There are going to be a lot of questions asked and I’ll be here for a long time.
Chapter Seven
Turai has been in chaos before. We’ve suffered riots, plague, sorcerous attack and drought, not to mention the civic unrest that erupts every couple of years when elections roll around. In the past few years crime has exploded with the mushrooming of the trade in dwa, the evil drug that has the city in its grasp, adding to the turmoil. But in my long experience, the city has rarely been gripped by fever in the way it is now.
Perfects have died in battle or died from illness but no one can remember one expiring from poison. As Prefect of the richest part of the city, Galwinius was a very important official, ranking almost as highly as the Praetors. More influential in some ways, given the wealth of his constituents. His murder comes as a shocking blow to the population. It doesn’t take long for the truth to come out about the reason behind the meeting. Soon the whole city knows that the Consul had gathered his officials together to plan for the defence of Turai against the Orcs. Panic erupts on all sides. The news-sheets hardly know which terrible story merits more prominence. Crowds gather on the streets and the common opinion is that it’s the end of the world as we know it. Which it might well be.
It was ten hours before I was allowed to leave the consular buildings. Though I had to answer a lot of routine questions, for once in my life I’m not a suspect. That was three days ago, since when I’ve once more applied myself to the task of checking aqueducts. Figuring that if the world is about to end there’s no sense in wasting beer, I make a brief report to Prefect Drinius before heading back to the Avenging Axe. It’s been a hard day and the weather is turning cold. I cheer myself up with the thought of the bottle of klee that’s waiting for me in my office.
Also waiting in my office are Makri, eight other women, a lot of scrolls and a powerful aroma of thazis.
“We’re just finishing,” says Makri.
“Finishing? What are you doing here?”
“Reading.”
“How dare you read in my office! Didn’t you say this wouldn’t happen again?”
“The bakery is still full.”
I inform the assembled women that I don’t care how full the bakery is, they can’t use my office for their classes. I spy an empty bottle of klee on the table.
“Is that my klee? Did you drink my klee?”
Makri is unapologetic.
“Just being hospitable to my guests.”
“With my klee? Were you thinking of paying for it? Where are my pastries? Did you eat them?”
I realise that everyone is looking at me
in a particularly disapproving manner. Morixa the baker turns to me and speaks quite sternly.
“The women of Twelve Seas do not exist merely to cook pastries for you, Investigator. We have our own aspirations. And we will pursue our aspirations despite your continual harassment.”
“Harassment? I’m the one who’s being—”
“He reminds me of my father,” says a young prostitute to her companion. “Drove my mother into an early grave. Makri, if this man threatens you in any way, send a message. I’ll bring my guild round to protect you immediately.”
The women collect their belongings and begin to file out of my room. Makri bids them all a polite farewell and shuts the door behind them.
“Was I just threatened by the Prostitutes Guild?”
“I think so. You better watch out, they know how to look after themselves.”
“Makri, this has got to stop. I demand you never teach women to read in my office again.”
Makri shrugs.
“Okay. We’ll go somewhere else. Not that it’s such a big inconvenience. You might be a little more supportive. You know I need the money. I expect I’d earn more as a waitress if it wasn’t for all the times I’ve helped you investigate. And of course I had to pay for having my axe sharpened after I blunted it saving you from—”
I hold up my hand.
“Spare me the moral blackmail. Just find another place. After checking aqueducts all day, I need my space.”
Makri lights another thazis stick. The room reeks of the stuff.
“I thought you’d be busy investigating the Prefect’s murder.”
“No one’s asked me to.”
“But you were right there in the room.”
Makri still has some difficulty in understanding that I don’t investigate for fun. I do it for a living.
“No one is going to hire me to investigate Galwinius. Palace Security and the Civil Guards are all over it.”
“I’m still confused as to why there are two Galwiniuses,” says Makri. “Isn’t the Prefect of Twelve Seas called Galwinius as well?”
“That’s Drinius Galwinius. Cousin of the murdered man. These aristocrats, they’re all related. Inbred, probably.”
“Everyone says Lodius did it. Is that true?”
I admit I don’t know.
“You saw him hand over the food.”
I did. But I don’t know if Senator Lodius meant to poison the Consul. If he did, I’d have expected him to be more circumspect about it. While I don’t normally have that much confidence in the investigative powers of either Palace Security or the Civil Guards, I’m fairly sure they’ll sort this one out, if only because for an affair of this magnitude they’ll be employing the talents of every Sorcerer in Turai. Sorcerers can on occasion look back in time, and though it’s a tricky business I can’t see the combined talents of Lisutaris, Hasius and Lanius failing to come up with a culprit.
“It’s been three days now,” points out Makri. “And they haven’t arrested anyone.”
“True. I wouldn’t mind joining in the investigation, because I’m offended that anyone could be murdered while I’m in the same room. But they’re not going to call on my services and that’s that.”
There are two popular theories currently circulating. The first is that Senator Lodius, tired of years of political strife with the Traditionals, had decided to move things along by taking some direct action. But even the most ardent supporter of the Traditionals can see problems with that one. Lodius isn’t stupid. And a man would have to be fairly stupid to hand over a poisoned pastry in full view of thirty or so Senators and expect to get away with it.
The other popular theory is that the murder is the work of the Orcs, seeking to destabilise the city before they attack. I’m dubious. Orcs are low, despicable creatures, but they’ve never poisoned any Human official before and I can’t see why they’d start now.
Consul Kalius has insisted that war preparations must go on uninterrupted. It’s hard to concentrate in the hubbub, and not as easy to go about my business any more. People were glad to see officials ostensibly preparing improvements for the city, but now that news of the Orcs has got out, any official soon finds himself surrounded by anxious citizens asking for news, demanding to know how long we have till the Orcs start marching.
There’s a coldness in the air that says winter is no more than a week away, maybe less. When winter comes the city would normally grind to a halt. This time, we’ll have to keep going. Many things have to be done before the spring. Lisutaris has given warning that the birth rate of dragons has gone up dramatically in the past few years, something which the Orcish Sorcerers have until now managed to conceal.
“So let them come on their dragons,” says Makri as we walk downstairs to the bar. “I’ve killed dragons before.”
“You killed one dragon.”
“Well, if another one had come along I’d have killed that too.”
“We didn’t kill that dragon in the Fairy Glade,” I remind her.
“That was a hefty beast,” admits Makri. “But I chased it off.“
“What do you mean, you chased it off? I was there too.”
“You were ogling the naiads in the water.”
“Very humorous, Makri. I was chopping up a squadron of Orcs so you could get to the commander.”
The door of the Avenging Axe swings open and a messenger struggles in weighed down by an enormous bunch of flowers. He places them on the counter.
“Delivery for Makri.”
The messenger departs. Makri looks at the card. She scowls, then sweeps the flowers on to the floor.
“Horm again?” says Gurd, appearing from the storeroom. Makri nods, and looks annoyed. Gurd is troubled. When the Orcs are about to attack, no tavern owner wants to be receiving bunches of flowers from one of their leaders. People could get the wrong impression.
“Why does he keep sending you flowers?” asks Gurd.
Makri shrugs.
“Did you encourage him in some way?”
Makri is offended.
“Of course I didn’t encourage him! Thraxas, did I encourage Horm the Dead to send me flowers?”
“Of course not. No encouragement at all. Though you did wander into my offices wearing your chainmail bikini while he was there. Maybe if you’d covered yourself up a bit better…”
“Ah,” says Gurd, nodding his head. “The chainmail bikini.”
“Which has been getting smaller and smaller in recent months…”
“I need to earn tips!” exclaims Makri. “You know how much it costs at the College!”
“I suppose there’s some truth in that. Though it doesn’t entirely explain why you were flaunting yourself at a foreign Sorcerer who was not, as far as I remember, buying drinks at the time.”
“This is outrageous,” says Makri. “I was not flaunting myself.”
“Well, you know,” I say, “a mad half-Orc Sorcerer spends all his time in the wastelands surrounded by stone-faced troll-girls and when he arrives in Turai the first thing he sees is you sauntering around practically naked, it’s bound to have an effect. He’d only met you for about a minute when he was offering you a position.”
Gurd laughs.
“What position was that?”
“Captain of his Armies,” says Makri, not sounding at all amused.
“And he called you the finest flower in all of Turai, I remember. Which might explain the flower motif. Probably since he left Turai he’s spent all his time languishing in his mountain palace or wherever he lives, thinking about you.”
Having now had enough of this, Makri turns on her heel and departs in a bad mood, leaving a few Orcish curses in her wake. I’m just taking a jar of ale from Gurd when the door opens again and Tanrose walks in. I’m about to rush and embrace her—something I can’t remember doing for a good many years—but Gurd beats me to it.
Thinking it best to leave them in peace, I pause only long enough to mention to Tanrose that I really would e
njoy one of her substantial venison pies for dinner tonight, and maybe a lemon tart for dessert, before heading upstairs to my office. I sweep some junk off the couch prior to lying down for an afternoon sleep. Unfortunately, as is so often the case when I’m headed for the couch, some damned client knocks on the door. I haul it open and make ready to repel visitors. I’m faced with a plump, well-dressed middle-aged woman who’s accompanied by a brawny young man, a servant from his attire.
“May I come in?” asks the woman in a voice so refined she could cut glass with it.
“If you must.”
I welcome them in, if allowing them to find their way through the mess on the floor while scowling roundly at them could be called a welcome. What does this Senator’s wife want with me? She settles down quite gracefully on the chair in front of my desk.
“I wish to hire you,” she says.
“What for?”
“To clear my husband’s name.”
“What’s he accused of?”
“Murdering Prefect Galwinius.”
There’s a brief pause while I digest this.
“And your husband is?”
“Senator Lodius.”
I rise to my feet and point to the door.
“Can’t do it. Try the Venarius agency uptown. They’re more your sort of people.”
The woman remains seated. She looks unruffled, which makes me feel foolish.
“You are an Investigator for hire, are you not?”
“I am. And your husband blackmailed me last year. And called me a low-life piece of scum.”
“Did he really say that? It doesn’t sound like my husband.”
I admit he might not have used those exact words.
“But he implied it.”
She wrinkles her brow just a little.
“Oh. I see. When you were recommended to me as a competent Investigator—and a man who’d fought in the war—I did not expect you to be so sensitive.”
“I’m not sensitive. I’m insulted. And I’m sensitive. Thanks to your husband I had to prevent an eviction.”
“Prevent an eviction? Was this unjust?”