by Martin Scott
“We need help,” says Palax, anxiously. I notice that Kaby is trembling. I scowl at them.
“Didn’t I tell you dwa would kill you?”
Dwa, a powerful drug, has been the bane of the city in recent years.
“She hasn’t take dwa. She’s sick.”
I look more closely at the girl. Her face is red, she’s shivering, and sweat is glistening on her forehead. It’s obvious what’s wrong. I’d have noticed right away had it not been for the unusual potency of Lisutaris’s green thazis.
“She’s got the winter malady,” I say.
“I know,” says Palax. “I think she’s going to die.”
Kaby suddenly sneezes. I step back quickly. The winter malady is not quite as deadly as the summer plague, but it’s bad enough. As the city is so crowded I wouldn’t be surprised if we were in for an epidemic. Kaby begins to shake, quite violently.
“Palax. Pick up Kaby and take her to the empty guest room at the end of the corridor. Keep her warm with a blanket and give her water and nothing else. Don’t leave the room and don’t let anyone else in. The malady spreads quickly and if anyone else comes near they’ll catch it.”
“Is she going to die?” asks Palax, looking quite desperate.
“No. She’s young and strong. She’ll be better in a few days. Now get her out of here and along to the guest room. I’ll get the healer.”
Palax does as I say. He has some difficulty carrying Kaby but I don’t offer to help. I’ve had the winter malady before and it’s commonly believed this makes a man less liable to get it again, but I don’t feel like taking the risk. The disease isn’t usually fatal but it’s unpredictable. There have been times when it’s struck with unusual ferocity. People can die from it. I drink some klee then go downstairs to tell Gurd the bad news in private. Gurd is alarmed.
“How bad is she?”
“Couldn’t tell. The malady always looks bad at the start.”
“What’ll I do?” asks Gurd.
I’m not certain. Any case of the winter malady breaking out in a public building should be reported to the local Prefect’s office. Unfortunately the Prefect can then impose a quarantine. If Gurd reports Kaby’s illness to Prefect Drinius he’s liable to see the Avenging Axe shut for at least a week, and that’s a lot of business to lose. He could just keep quiet about it, which is fine if Kaby recovers and no one learns of it. But if the Prefect discovers what’s happened, there’ll be trouble.
Gurd chews his lip.
“Three years ago that silversmith from Lorn took the malady. He just stayed in his room and he got better. I didn’t report it then…”
I remember. The incident passed off harmlessly enough. The winter malady often does. Some years very few people catch it, and it doesn’t seem virulent enough to kill. Unfortunately there have been years when it’s been a lot worse. My younger brother died of the winter malady, a long time ago. A lot of people died of it that year. Gurd decides to look in on Kaby, judge her condition, then visit Chiaraxi the healer in private. Chiaraxi is a friend, and won’t close him down if it doesn’t seem necessary. I watch him hurry upstairs then walk over to the counter for a beer. Makri is serving.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Have you heard of Moolifi?”
Makri shakes her head.
“She’s a singer up at the Golden Unicorn.”
Makri sneers. I raise my eyebrows.
“How did a barmaid who grew up in a gladiator slave pit become such a snob?”
“I am not a snob,” retorts Makri.
“Oh no? You sneer at anything that wasn’t written five hundred years ago by some obscure Elvish bard.”
“I sneer at anything which involves the performer taking her clothes off before the end of the first chorus.”
“Well it might brighten up some of these musty old Elvish plays. Besides, I hear Moolifi has a terrific voice.”
“From who?”
“From Captain Rallee. Who has apparently been stepping out with Moolifi for the past week.”
It’s an interesting snippet of news, even for Makri, who’s not normally one for gossip. Captain Rallee did use to be something of a lady’s man, but generally these days he’s too busy to pursue them. He’s in charge of one of the local Civil Guards posts, and with half his men absent on war duty, he’s even more overworked than usual.
“He’s as happy as an Elf in a tree. He’s been strutting round with her on his arm, making the locals jealous.”
I muse for a while on the Captain, and his new lady. I’ve never seen her perform.
“I haven’t been up to the Golden Unicorn for a while.”
“Are you feeling the need for some exotic dancers?”
“No. But there’s a big game of rak played there every week, lot of rich players. I’d like to sit down at a table with some of them.”
“So why don’t you?”
“Can’t afford it,” I admit. “A man needs a lot of money before he can play cards with Praetor Capatius and General Acarius.”
“You gamble too much,” says Makri.
I point out to Makri that she herself has not been averse to the odd wager since arriving in Turai.
“Only because of your bad influence.”
“Bad influence? I’d call it rounding out your personality. All you used to do was work and study. These days you’re slightly less unbearable.”
Tanrose is further along behind the bar, ladling out stew to Viriggax and a few of his mercenaries. When she’s filled their bowls she hurries over to me and leans across the bar, lowering her voice so as not to be heard by anyone else.
“Thraxas. I need to consult you.”
“You mean an investigation?”
Tanrose nods.
“I’m due for guard duty right now. Can it wait till I get back?”
Tanrose nods, and I tell her to come to my office when my shift at the walls ends. I’ve no idea what she might want me to investigate, but as she’s the finest cook ever seen at the Avenging Axe, I’m more than willing to give her whatever help she requires.
Chapter Four
I have two magic warm cloaks. The first one is a fairly inefficient garment. Keeps out the chill for a while but soon starts to lose its potency. I made it myself but my sorcerous powers just aren’t up to the task these days. The cloak which Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, made for me is much better. She put a spell on it which only needs a word from me to revitalise it each day. The cloak stays warm for a long time. I’ve done enough soldiering in freezing weather to appreciate the favour. Not that Lisutaris didn’t owe me a favour or two, as I pointed out to Makri, with some justice. As do various others, I reflect, during my long spell on the walls. I gaze out into the frozen waste below with a feeling of dissatisfaction. I’ve fought for this city. I’ve lived here, worked here, paid taxes. I’ve sorted out the problems of the rich and poor. My investigating talents have helped keep Lisutaris in her job and Deputy Consul Cicerius out of disgrace. And where has it got me? Two rooms above a tavern in the poorest part of town with little prospect of improvement.
The wind blows a little colder. I wrap my cloak tighter around me. Down below is the rocky stretch of shoreline that leads to the harbour. Since talking about Captain Rallee and his girlfriend, I keep thinking about the card game in the upstairs room at the Golden Unicorn. General Acarius and Praetor Capatius are both regular visitors to the table. The General has a reputation as the finest gambler in the Turanian army, and he’s very wealthy. Half the Turanian fleet is built from wood grown on his family’s vast estates. As for Capatius, he’s the richest man in Turai. He owns his own bank and his trading empire extends all over the west. If I could just get myself around a rak table with these two I’d soon show them how the game should be played.
I do have a slight connection to the game at the theatre. Ravenius plays there. Ravenius, a senator’s son, also comes down to the Avenging Axe to play at our weekly game. The stakes at the A
venging Axe are a lot lower than Ravenius is used to at the Unicorn, but the young man is such a keen gambler he enjoys playing anywhere. Perhaps he could introduce me to General Acarius. I shake my head. It’s hopeless. You have to lay down a lot of money before they’ll allow you to sit at the table. More than I can raise.
My companion in the lookout post is Ozax, an old soldier now turned master builder. Something catches my eye and I call him over.
“A ship?”
It’s an unexpected sight. Ships don’t sail these waters in winter; the gales are too severe. Though this winter isn’t particularly harsh, there have already been several storms fierce enough to sink any warship or trader foolish enough to venture out. We watch as the vessel limps towards the harbour.
“Trader,” mutters Ozax. “Looks like it’s barely afloat.”
The ship’s masts are broken and it’s crawling along under one ripped sail. It’s low in the water, and though we can’t see it clearly at this distance, I’m guessing that all spare hands on board are currently pumping out water for all they’re worth, trying to keep the vessel afloat. I can see soldiers hurrying along the harbour walls, ready to deal with any emergency. In time of war, no ship can enter the harbour unbidden. It’s protected by both chains and spells, and the harbour master won’t admit anyone till he’s very sure that it’s not an enemy.
As we watch, the stricken ship crawls up to the entrance to the harbour then halts, its bow pressed against the thick chains that block the entrance. Sounds of shouting float over the water. Probably whoever’s on board is yelling at the defenders to let them in before they go under, which won’t be long. The vessel hovers perilously at the entrance, sinking ever further in the water. Just when it seems it’s about to slide beneath the sea, the great chains are pulled back. The Sorcerer on duty at the harbour removes the defensive spells and the ship begins to crawl into the harbour. They’ve made it to safety.
It’s an interesting occurrence. As a curious sort of person, I might be inclined to take a walk over if I hadn’t promised to see Tanrose after my shift. I run into Makri as I’m walking back to the Avenging Axe. She’s wearing a man’s tunic and leggings, and her floppy green pointed hat. Its a foolish item she picked up on the Elvish isle of Avula. Only Elvish children wear them and it looks ridiculous. Along with her new golden nose ring, it makes for a particularly offensive sight. The assorted lowlifes who frequent the Avenging Axe are always going on about how great it is the way Makri bulges out of her tiny chainmail bikini in all the right places, but as far as I can see they’re missing the point. For one thing she’s far too skinny round the waist, and for another, even if you like the skinny type, a pretty face and figure don’t make up for her numerous faults. She paints her toenails gold like a Simnian whore, she has her nose pierced like some refugee from an Orcish brothel, she’s got the longest and most unruly hair in the city, and beneath that are a pair of pointed ears. Together with her short temper, her foolish intellectual pursuits and her weird puritanical streak it makes for a very unattractive package. Anyone ending up with Makri as a partner would soon come to regret it.
“What’s the hurry, Thraxas?”
“I need a beer.”
“Since the Orcs arrived you’ve hardly been sober.”
“Who wants to be sober when the Orcs are outside the walls? Last time they were here I was drunk for three months. And still fought heroically.”
There are some people on the streets, but between the cold weather and the war there’s not a lot of merriment about. Makri isn’t helping. She’s unusually gloomy. Even the sight of a new batch of swords being laid out in the armourer’s window doesn’t bring a smile to her face, and Makri is a great weapons enthusiast.
“You notice how it’s not such a bad winter?” she says.
I nod. It’s cold, but nothing like last year.
“Wouldn’t you say it’s warm enough for the Guild College to open?”
Makri has a strange passion for education. It’s another of her faults.
“It always shuts in winter. Anyway, you said they’d suspended classes for the duration of the war.”
“But they could have stayed open and we’d have been able to take our exams before the spring. Might have got the whole year finished before the Orcs attacked.”
“Makri, you must be the only person in the city who’s thinking about learning anything right now. Chances are there won’t even be a city after the spring.”
“That’s just the point,” says Makri, now agitated. “Supposing the college goes up in flames and all the records are destroyed? I’m number one student, two years at the top. I’m going to finish with distinction this year and who’s going to know if they don’t give me my certified scroll?”
Poor Makri. If it were anyone else complaining about their education at a time like this I’d ridicule them, but I’ve realised over the past two years what it all means to her. Makri has moved heaven, earth and the three moons to complete her studies at the Guild College. This college, a place for the sons of the lower classes to further their studies, didn’t want to admit her. Makri had to struggle all the way, and she’s still struggling, scraping together enough money to pay for her classes, and dealing with a lot of hostility because of her Orcish blood. It’s quite an achievement for her to have accomplished as much as she has. Makri’s dream is to enter the Imperial University of Turai. It’s a hopeless dream, but I’ve giving up mocking her over it.
“Don’t worry, we’ll hold off the Orcs for a while yet. Hell, we don’t even know if Prince Amrag’s got any sort of force out there.”
Makri shakes her head.
“Even if we win the war it’ll still delay the exams. I need my certified scroll to apply to the university.”
“Makri, do you have enough money to pay for the university?”
“No.”
“Do you have a plan to circumvent the article in the university statutes which forbids the education of women?”
“No.”
“Do you have some means of getting round the other part of their constitution, which forbids admitting anyone with Orcish blood?”
Makri purses her lips.
“No,” she admits.
“So what’s the difference? Even if you nail your scroll to the university doors they still won’t let you in.”
“I’ll think of something,” says Makri, stubborn in the face of the uncomfortable truth.
“Think of something? What?”
“I don’t know. Just something.”
“Threatening them with your axe won’t work.”
“Then I’ll think of something else.”
“Maybe,” I suggest, “when Prince Amrag takes over the city he might make you a professor.”
Makri whirls to face me, a furious look on her face.
“I told you not to mention him!”
“I’m an Investigator. I find it hard not to mention things.”
Makri glares at me, but refuses to discuss it further. Since learning that she’s half-sister to the new overlord of all the eastern Orcs, I’ve certainly been curious to learn more. However, apart from the vague information that they had the same father but a different mother, and that Amrag escaped early from the Orcish slave pits, leaving Makri there to fend for herself, I’ve learned nothing at all. Makri refuses to discuss it and insists that I never mention it to anyone. I’m okay with not mentioning it. It’s not the sort of thing she’d want the public to know. But I can’t help feeling she ought to tell Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. In time of war any information about the enemy leader would surely be helpful, and Lisutaris wouldn’t give Makri away.
We walk past some small alleyways. Each one we pass is occupied by someone either selling dwa, or using it. The distinctive smell of the burning substance assails us from all sides. It’s impossible to travel more than a few yards along the narrow pavement without being approached by someone trying to make a sale. By the third or fourth time I give up answering and ju
st bat them out the way.
“Turai is going to hell,” I mutter, stepping over the prone body of an addict, sprawled out in the street. Many of them are young men who should be doing military duty. “If this gets any worse the city won’t be worth defending.”
I shake my head.
“I should have left this place long ago.”
“So why didn’t you?” asks Makri.
“I could never think of any place better to go.”
The outskirts of the harbour is a really bad part of town, worse even than the rest of Twelve Seas. Shivering young prostitutes, wrapped in threadbare cloaks, try to attract our attention as we pass. Beggars hold out their hands hopelessly, and a few children, far too raggedly dressed to be out in this weather, stand forlornly outside taverns, waiting for their parents to emerge. Things don’t improve when I spot Glixius Dragon Killer coming towards us. He’s a large man, broad and vigorous. Even without his rainbow cloak he’d stand out from the poor miserable masses around him.
His eyes narrow as he approaches, and so do mine. Glixius Dragon Killer is an old enemy. He’s a powerful Sorcerer, though not one who’s ever been a credit to the city. Until recently he was outside the influence of the Sorcerers Guild, though he’s been brought back into the fold due to the current crisis. That doesn’t alter the fact that he’s a criminal. He may have escaped conviction, and he might even be fooling the Sorcerers Guild, but he’s not fooling me.
Like any successful Sorcerer, Glixius is wealthy. I wonder what he’s doing in the poor part of town. Something illegal no doubt. I’m wearing my spell protection charm but I get ready for action because Glixius is strong, and quite capable of launching a physical assault if he feels like it.