by Martin Scott
“Couldn’t you get sick somewhere else? You’re not staying here. I refuse to allow it.”
“No one in Turai can refuse aid to a sick guest,” says Chiaraxi.
“She’s not a guest. She just barged her way in here.”
It’s hopeless. Chiaraxi is already busy with her herbs.
“Bring a blanket,” she instructs.
“I refuse to let you cover Hanama with my blanket,” I protest, but it’s useless. Makri is already fetching it.
“How can Hanama be my guest? I don’t even like her. Ask anyone.”
No one is listening to me. I take out a bottle of klee and drink a good shot, shuddering as it burns my throat. Now I’ve got a sick Sorcerer in my bedroom and a sick Assassin in my office. I shake my head, and wonder how it can possibly have happened. It’s not like these people don’t have homes of their own where they could be ill.
Chapter Six
Deputy Consul Cicerius hurries down to Twelve Seas as soon as he receives my message. I haven’t yet informed Prefect Drinius. I’m on bad terms with our local prefect and will leave it to Cicerius to do what’s necessary. When Cicerius arrives I’m hesitant about actually letting him in my office. The way things are going I’m half expecting him to plummet to the floor the moment he enters.
“I have had the malady,” he says, and sweeps past me. His assistant, Hansius, doesn’t look quite so comfortable in the presence of disease. Cicerius is surprised to see Hanama lying on the couch. I’m not certain if he recognises her. Asleep, she looks more child-like than ever. Not at all like a woman who once killed an Elf lord and an Orc lord both in the same day, and a senator as well, as Hanama is reputed to have done.
“There is more than one victim? Where is Lisutaris?”
“In the next room.”
I’m not thrilled at the prospect of the Deputy Consul of Turai entering my only private room, not least because it’s even more untidy than my office. I get the strange feeling that I’m back in the army and my personal kit is about to be inspected by an officer. I start to bridle. One comment about the state of my rooms and I’ll sling them out. Chiaraxi accompanies them into the bedroom. Gurd has gone back downstairs, leaving me alone for the moment with Makri, apart from Hanama, who’s sleeping under the influence of some medicinal draught. Even so, I draw Makri to the far side of the room and talk to her in a low voice, careful lest Hanama should overhear. You can’t trust an Assassin, even a sick one.
“What did Hanama want? Is it something I should know about?”
Makri shrugs.
“I don’t know. She collapsed before she could tell me.”
“Didn’t she even give you a hint?”
Makri shakes her head.
“You saw how quickly she went down.”
It’s a mystery. Damn Hanama. Couldn’t she have stayed on her feet for another thirty seconds?
“It must be something really serious,” says Makri.
“I suppose so. Unless she just felt like talking to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” declares Makri, sharply.
“Last month she brought you flowers.”
“Will you just drop that?” says Makri. “There’s no need to keep going on and on about it. Don’t you have something else to think about?”
Hansius reappears and asks me to join the Deputy Consul. I notice his eyes flicker towards Makri. Hansius has been in my office before but I don’t think he’s ever encountered Makri in her chainmail bikini. Plenty of people regard it as a remarkable sight. Not just her breasts; Makri is the only woman I’ve ever seen with tightly defined stomach muscles. Even the dancers in the theatres up-town tend to have softer bellies. Of course, all decent women keep their stomachs well covered up.
Knowing that if Hansius keeps staring, Makri will say something rude, I take his arm and guide him back into my private room where Deputy Consul Cicerius is standing beside Lisutaris, looking thoughtful. The sorceress is conscious, but very weak.
Cicerius thanks me for notifying him.
“This is bad. I do not want news of Lisutaris’s illness to be made known. It would be disastrous for the city’s morale. Furthermore, and most importantly, the Orcs must not learn of it.”
What the Deputy Consul says is true. Lisutaris is so important to the defence of the city that news of her incapacity might be all the Orcs needed before staging an attack.
Cicerius is a thin, grey-haired man, trusted by the population though not loved. He’s too vain and too austere to generate much affection. But he’s a better man than our highest official, Consul Kalius. Kalius was injured on the battlefield, and not gloriously. He’s now recuperating but is too traumatised to take the reins of power, which leaves Cicerius in charge. The strain is showing. His face is thinner and his toga, normally as clean, white and well pressed as it could be, shows signs of having been put on in a hurry.
“The healer is concerned by Lisutaris’s condition but not overly so. The Mistress of the Sky is a strong woman and should recover.”
I glance at Lisutaris. Her eyes are open, but I’m not sure if she can hear us or not.
“So are you going to send a wagon to ship her back home?”
“No. She must stay here while she recovers,” continues Cicerius. “Your healer advocates complete rest.”
I start complaining loudly. Cicerius glares at me.
“Do you not trust this healer Chiaraxi?”
I’m forced to admit I do.
“She keeps people going in Twelve Seas and that’s not easy.”
Cicerius nods.
“I have the feeling she is to be trusted. I could send down healers from the Palace, but…”
He ponders for a while.
“But I would rather as few people learn of this as possible. Already this month our intelligence services have rooted out an Orcish spy in the Palace and another one in the senate. There are probably more. I’d far rather leave Lisutaris to recover here, away from all prying eyes. Makri is already employed as bodyguard to protect her. I’ll send down a few other agents, discreetly, to ensure her safety. All being well, our sorceress should recover fully in a few days with no one even knowing she was ill.”
“Won’t people miss her at the Palace? Or on the war council?”
Cicerius shakes his head.
“I can assign her duties which would keep her away from the war council for a few days. And we can use her double for some public appearances, to allay any suspicions.”
“Her double?”
Cicerius informs me that the Consul’s office has people ready to play the parts of various important citizens in Turai, for precisely this sort of emergency.
“There is an employee at the Palace—a keeper of imperial records—who has already served in this capacity on occasion.”
I’m impressed. I didn’t realise our government was so organised.
“What about quarantine?”
Cicerius shakes his head.
“Prefect Drinius is not to be informed and the Avenging Axe is not to be quarantined. Do nothing which might attract attention to this tavern, until Lisutaris has fully recovered.”
“And Hanama?”
“She must stay here. We cannot risk her leaving. She might let it be known that Lisutaris is ill.”
“But it’s not safe having her here. What if she assassinates Lisutaris?”
“That hardly seems likely,” says Cicerius. “Assassins do not kill at random. They work to contract.”
“I don’t like this at all. Why should I look after a sick Assassin?”
“You are aware, of course,” says Cicerius, “of the Turanian tradition which requires all citizens to give hospitality to a sick guest?”
“Of course. I just don’t think it should apply to Assassins.”
“It applies to everyone,” says Cicerius, who’s always keen on Turanian traditions, no matter how stupid they are. “Simply care for them, go about your business, and Lisutaris’s illness should
pass unnoticed.”
I give up the argument. At least if the tavern isn’t quarantined the card game can go ahead. I get the insane notion to ask Cicerius for 500 gurans but dismiss it immediately. He’s not known for his generosity. Besides, he’d probably find it impossible to imagine that anyone could think of playing cards at a time like this.
Inspiration suddenly strikes.
“How is the hunt for the Ocean Storm?”
Cicerius looks at me suspiciously.
“You know of that?”
“Of course. Lisutaris came down to consult me. She knows I’m number one chariot at finding missing items.”
“Any help you can give will be appreciated,” says Cicerius, brusquely. “But there are already many people looking. Praetor Samilius is organising the search.”
“Then you can expect not to find it. Best hire me. I’ve come through for you before. Shouldn’t take more than—let me see—five hundred gurans should do it.”
The Deputy Consul looks shocked.
“Are you trying to extort money for finding an item on which national security may depend?”
“Extort? You call asking for a decent wage extortion?”
“As I recall, your normal daily rate is thirty gurans,” says Cicerius. “It saddens me to see any citizen of Turai trying to make money from the crisis.”
“And me. But it so happens I need five hundred gurans in a hurry. That’s not a great sum. You could lose it in the treasury accounts easily enough. So how about offering a reward of five hundred gurans for the swift locating of the Ocean Storm?”
Cicerius gives me a withering look. He clearly regards me among the ranks of the profiteers who buy up supplies in times of hardship and sell them for vastly inflated prices to the suffering population.
“If you locate the item I may authorise a small reward. But do not expect me to do you any favours in future.”
“I never noticed you doing me any favours in the past.”
Hansius reminds the Deputy Consul that they have an urgent appointment at the Palace. Cicerius nods.
“Thraxas. It is your responsibility to look after Lisutaris. While she is under this roof, I suggest you moderate your habits. For once in your life, try putting the interests of the city before your own.”
Cicerius departs. It was typical of him to insult me at the same time as requesting I work hard for him. Cicerius can be a great speaker—in the law courts he’s a fabulous orator—but he doesn’t spend a lot of time working on his personal charm.
Chiaraxi provides instructions for the care of Lisutaris and Hanama. They’re simple enough. Plenty of water, and the herbal concoction every few hours.
“Make sure they’re kept warm. That should be easy enough for you.”
I look at her blankly.
“Sorcery,” says Chiaraxi. “You can light your fire with a spell.”
“Right,” I say.
It’s a long time since my fire-lighting spell worked. These days I just don’t have the power. After Chiaraxi leaves I check on Lisutaris and Hanama. Neither look like they’re about to die in the next few moments so I do what I’ve been wanting to for some time, and hurry downstairs to the bar.
“Happy Guildsman, and make it quick.”
Gurd hands me over the extra-large-sized tankard. From the expression on his face he could do with a few Happy Guildsmen himself.
“It’s terrible,” he hisses.
“Not so bad,” I tell him, quietly. “No quarantine.”
Gurd is still troubled.
“What if Lisutaris dies?”
“They can hardly blame you.”
“Can’t they? I never reported it when Kaby went sick. I should have.”
I tell Gurd to relax.
“The Deputy Consul has entrusted the whole affair into my hands.”
“What do you know about healing the sick?”
“Not much,” I admit. “But all that seems to be required is regular doses of Chiaraxi’s herbal concoction. Just pour it into the patients and wait for them to get better. Easy enough. I always knew these healers were making too much out of the whole thing. Probably helps them to bump up their fees.”
I point out to Gurd that once Lisutaris has been successfully brought back to health the Avenging Axe could even benefit.
“Might get a reputation among Sorcerers as a good place to go, and Sorcerers are big drinkers. When I went to the last Sorcerers Assemblage they were taking it in like their lives depended on it.”
Sorcerers rarely seem to practice moderation. Whether it’s alcohol, dwa or, as in Lisutaris’s case, thazis, they always need to go to excess.
Makri arrives with a tray full of empty tankards.
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asks.
“In the guest room, I suppose.”
“You can’t. Moolifi’s in the guest room.”
I forgot about that. I don’t know where I’m going to sleep. Makri announces that she’s sleeping next to Lisutaris, on the floor.
“Says who?”
“Me. It’s my job. I’m her bodyguard.”
Suddenly everything seems worse. Makri sleeping on my bedroom floor. Time was when no one entered my office apart from the occasional hopeless client. Now there’s hardly room for a man to sit and drink beer.
I turn to Gurd.
“Looks like you’ll have to put me up in your room. Be like sharing a tent in the war.”
Gurd looks embarrassed.
“That would be, ah—”
Gurd abruptly feels the need to polish the far end of the bar, and moves away rapidly, working his cloth furiously. I’m baffled.
“What’s the matter with him?”
Makri gives me a pitying look.
“You can’t share his room. Tanrose shares his room. Didn’t you know that?”
“Of course I didn’t know that. When did this happen?”
“Right after he asked her to marry him,” Makri informs me.
Now I’m stuck for inspiration.
“Maybe I can sleep behind the bar,” I muse.
“Just sleep on the floor in your office.”
“Sleep in the same room as an Assassin? No chance.”
“You might form a bond,” says Makri. “It’s time you got yourself some female companionship. Hey, even Gurd’s not alone these days.”
Tanrose appears from the kitchen, carrying a tray of pastries.
“Tanrose, don’t you think it’s time Thraxas got himself a woman?” calls Makri.
“Definitely,” says Tanrose. “I’ve been telling him for years he should settle down.”
“Of course, Hanama’s on the small side, so you’ll have to be careful…”
Not wishing to listen to any more mockery, I take a bowl of stew—with no yams—and depart to the far corner of the room, where I sit in front of the fire, listening to mercenaries talk about fighting. I wonder about the Ocean Storm, and I wonder about Tanrose’s mother’s tale of buried gold. Which is most likely to earn me some money in a short space of time? It’s a difficult choice. I decide to investigate each one tomorrow, and see where it takes me.
Chapter Seven
Next day I’m out on the streets early enough to catch the first beer delivery. I recognise the large, red-haired man who’s rolling barrels down to the cellar.
“What are you doing on a wagon, Partulax?”
Partulax gave up working the wagons a few years ago when he became an official in the Transport Guild. These days he spends most of his time sitting in an office giving out jobs and contracts.
“Driver shortage,” he replies. “Most of the Guild’s been called up for the war. Your delivery man’s up at the Gardens.”
Turai has a regiment of troops stationed close to the Pleasure Gardens defending the East Gate. There’s been some suggestion of mounting an attack on the Stadium, but I think General Pomius is against it. We don’t know how many Orcs are there and he’d rather not open any of the city gates till a relie
f force arrives.
“No shortages in the beer department?”
“Not yet,” replies Partulax.
Just as well. If beer runs out it will be a crushing, demoralising blow for the city. I’d find it hard to carry on. Again it’s a mild day, and Gurd is sweating as he helps fill the cellar.
“Off to the walls?”
I shake my head.
“My day off military duty.”
“Then what are you doing up at this time?”
“Working on a case.”
No one has been able to shed any light on the mysterious disappearance of the captain of the ship that was supposed to be bringing the Ocean Storm to Turai, so I’m off to interview the first mate. He’s holed up at the Mermaid Tavern. An interesting choice, given that the Mermaid is the local headquarters for the Brotherhood. Not the sort of place an innocent man generally chooses for his residence, though it doesn’t necessarily mean the sailor is part of the criminal gang. He might just need to be near to a supply of dwa. Or maybe he’s sick of being investigated, and wants to be somewhere where the law doesn’t go. Between the Civil Guards, Palace Security and the local prefect, he’s already suffered a lot of investigation.
The lane that leads to the Mermaid is full of dwa dealers, small-timers at the mouth of the alley and a few more important figures close to the tavern. Trade is brisk, as always. Once more, I’m struck by the number of men who should be on military duty but aren’t. Very lucrative for the Brotherhood, but maybe they won’t think it was such a smart way to make a profit when the Orcs storm the walls and put them all to the sword.
As I’m about to enter the tavern, Glixius Dragon Killer strides out the front door. His great black boots, handcrafted by the master leather workers of Juval and probably costing more than I earn in three months, are scuffed and muddied from the alleyway. If I had such a fancy pair of boots I wouldn’t wear them to the Mermaid. I’m surprised to find him here. As far as I know, Glixius doesn’t use dwa. When I try to walk round him he gets in the way.
“I’m looking forward to our game,” he says.